


Gold and Glory, Heart and Home

by Footloose



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose/pseuds/Footloose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some men went West for gold and glory.  Other men went West to run from their ghosts.</p><p>Other men... simply ran.  They ran West seeking new lives that were better than the ones they'd left behind, always afraid that someone or something would drag them back to their pasts.</p><p>And Arthur...  Arthur had gone West, and he didn't stop until he found his heart and home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gold and Glory, Heart and Home

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted too write a Western Merlin AU. And along comes Amphigoury's [artwork](http://amphigoury.livejournal.com/39486.html), and there was my inspiration. How could I resist it? I wrote this piece that I want to write _more_ for, and instead of shaking off the Western AU bug, I want to keep writing in this AU. Thanks, Amph. I blame you.
> 
> And thank you, Castmeaway for the thorough beta! You did an amazing job, BB. And, of course, any mistakes that remain are totally artistic liberties that I made _on purpose_.
> 
> * * *

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/ubaAAZN)

 

 

* * *

 

It was three months, one fortnight, two days, and some seven hours by Arthur's grandaddy's pocket watch before someone caught up with him and called him out.

"Arthur Pendragon, you dirty no-good son-of-a-gun."

The chatter in the tavern didn't ebb; it stopped _dead_. Forget the cricket chirp. Arthur could only hear the sound of rustling fabric, a man reaching for his gun, and that man wasn't him.

He glanced at his own reflection in the cracked mirror behind the bar. It was hard to make out anything more than the scruff of beard and the hat with the bent brim where he kept pulling it down over his eyes, but he knew what he looked like: someone who sure wished that he could make it through the day and die without the weight of the road still heavy on his skin.

Arthur wondered who would take care of his horse.

He'd been riding for what felt like months. He'd gone north, first, going from town to town, city to city, but he had never felt right anywhere. There'd been an itch that he couldn't scratch, and it hadn't started to ease until he'd turned his horse's nose west.

And ever westward, he'd gone, until he'd woken up with a layer of dew on his clothes, drunk the last of his coffee, and ridden into Albion.

Albion was a quaint little town with barely two streets to call its own, but Arthur wasn't one to let his guard down. He'd seen the signs riding in. Women moving off the streets. Children ushered inside. The mild-mannered stepping into the shadows -- even the deputies. These were people who had seen the rough side of someone's hand, and Arthur wasn't planning on sticking around long enough to find out whatever it was that had people startle whenever someone new rode on through.

Arthur didn't want any trouble, but it seemed like he wasn't going to have a say in it.

"Pendragon. Don't you hear me talkin' to you?"

Arthur had an idle moment to think, _Well, that's too bad, I was starting to like this town,_ before he lowered his watered-down sarsaparilla and placed the glass on the sticky bar. He had another idle moment to think, _Morgana's going to gloat, she told me to change my looks in her last telegram,_ before he turned around.

What amounted to Albion's law enforcement in the Saloon reacted, though a bit too slow for Arthur's liking. The deputies jumped to their feet and fondled their revolvers with sweat-slick hands, but they didn't draw. Arthur hadn't been in town long, but he knew from experience with other men like these that the spindly man with a rat's moustache had more swagger than skill, and the other one had a whiskey belly so round that his gun belt would split open if he heaved a deep breath.

The ladies retreated to strategic corners and the piano man lowered the lid with a tiny click before crawling under the bench. A few patrons had already ducked under chairs and tables, bringing their drinks with them. The card sharks barely took their eyes from their cards, never mind the other players, neither trusting them not to cheat, nor to try to sweep someone else's coins into their own piles.

Gwaine, that shaggy-haired rogue with the purple vest and tailored pants, covered his cards with one hand and tapped the fingers of the other impatiently, as if Arthur's imminent death was an inconvenient pause in what was no doubt a swindle that he had in play.

The double-doors were still swinging behind the man who had snarled Arthur's name, but Arthur couldn't see his face for the weight of the shadow from his hat getting in the way.

He was taller than Arthur, but narrower in the shoulders and of slightly slimmer build. He wore his slicker like it weighed a million tons, and it probably did -- the oiled leather had been nearly bleached white by sun and trail dust. His boots were scuffed and dirty, the spurs' points dull but flashing in the light from the spin, and there was no missing the shine of bullets looped through the gun belt across his chest, or the silver flash of the revolver on his hip.

"You're a damned ungracious scoundrel, that's what you are," the man drawled. There was something familiar about him, but Arthur couldn't place it. "A lily-livered coward. You done gone and ran yourself off the face of the earth because you're too damn yellow to take it like a man when it comes to settling debts."

Arthur tilted his head faintly, frowning in confusion. He tried to remember what debts he had outstanding. He'd settled most of them before he left, took care of the rest by way of telegram, but there were still those that he could never pay back and would never know where to even begin. He'd killed a lot of men in his military career, but he'd always been careful that no one would be able to identify him. 

If this man was here to exact revenge, well... 

Arthur wasn't a quick draw, but any fool could whip their gun out of their holster and slap a hand against the hammer and squeeze a trigger faster than it took for a flirting lady to flutter her fan. A quick draw didn't make a man a good shot.

And Arthur wasn't a good shot. He was the best.

The man pulled off his hat and ran a hand through messy red-blond hair. He smacked his hat against his other hand and a dust cloud puffed up and drifted to the floor.

Someone coughed.

The man looked up and Arthur flinched in recognition. This wasn't about a debt _he_ owed. 

Leon Miller pointed an accusing finger in Arthur's face. "You, sir, are a hard man to track down. I had to promise a certain lady a good long letter sent back her way when I found you. But I'll be kind, and I won't tell her what sort of state I'm leaving you in when I'm done with you. I don't care what you say, Pendragon. You're going to take what you're owed."

"If I'd known you'd be like a dog after a bone, I'd never have done it," Arthur said. He stuck his thumbs in his belt, relaxing.

"A bottle of whiskey," Leon said. "A kiss on the cheek. That's what I owe you --"

"Er --" the rotund deputy cleared his throat noisily; it echoed somewhere deep in his belly and cut through the tension in the air. "So you're not goin' to be doin' any shootin'?"

"What is _wrong_ with you, man?" Leon roared, sweeping his hat toward Arthur in a broad gesture. "Don't you know who this is?"

"No?"

"And we don't care much, neither," piped up the rat-moustache deputy, his voice just as squeaky as Arthur had guessed it would be.

"You're a bunch of heathens, that's what you are," Leon said, throwing an arm around Arthur's shoulder. "Don't you recognize a war hero when you see one? This, ladies and gentlemen --"

"Leon, don't --"

"-- is Lieutenant Arthur Pendragon, the man who single-handedly won the Battle of Caerleon Hill. And he done gone and done it by firing _one_ bullet --"

"Damn it, Leon --"

"-- from fifteen hundred yards away. And he is damn well going to shut his yap long enough for me to buy this fine establishment's best bottle of whiskey so that I can thank him for it!"

 

* * *

 

Arthur woke up on the floor of the tavern, a bad taste in his mouth and an ungodly pounding in his head. He stared up into the ceiling, his vision blurring, until he could make out the rafters and the shadows around the rooms-for-lease on the second floor.

There was a Sheriff's star pinned to his vest.

News spread fast in a small town. He must have been three, maybe four shots into the second bottle of whiskey -- Gwaine had bought that one -- when the Sheriff came storming into the tavern.

 _"You're the war hero?" he asked. He looked Arthur up and down. "You don't look like much."  
_ _  
_ _"Never said I was," Arthur said.  
_ _  
_ _"You're some sort of dead-aim, eagle-eye sharpshooter? Leastways, that's what I heard." The Sheriff looked even more doubtful now than he had when he came stomping over.  
_ _  
_ _Arthur threw back another shot and put his glass down on the bar; it clinked and tinkled as it wobbled around. "I hit what I aim for."_  
  
Arthur vaguely recalled stumbling outside the tavern for a marksmanship test, and he had no idea how he had been talked into it, because he'd gotten over proving how good he was with a gun a long time ago. He suspected Gwaine had something to do with it, what with being the silver-tongued slippery snake that he was, and Arthur idly wondered how much he'd drunk after every shot, and how much money Gwaine had won off of him.

One thing he did remember was slurring his way through the oath of office as the Sheriff -- now the ex-Sheriff -- swore him in. It hadn't seemed to matter that he didn't _want_ to be the Sheriff. That he was still figuring out what he was doing out here in the west and what he was going to do with himself for the rest of his life. The Sheriff had shaken Arthur's hand, ignored his protest, and said, "Well, sir, if you ask me, you can earn a honest wage while you figure it out."

Arthur wasn't sure if he would thank the ex-Sheriff if he ever saw him again.

There was a groan next to him. Arthur turned his head and immediately regretted moving when a blast of pain thundered through his temples.

"I licked a pig's armpit," Leon moaned.

"You did."

"Why did I lick a pig's armpit?"

"Gwaine," Arthur said, as if it explained everything.

"Friend of yours?"

Arthur started to shake his head. He thought better of it, but he couldn't help the burst of laughter that came out of his chest. His eyes felt as if he'd been uncomfortably intimate with a porcupine. "God. I sure hope so."

They didn't say anything for a long time. Around them, people stirred and moaned from their own hangovers. Apparently a war hero in town was something to celebrate, but when that war hero became the town's new Sheriff, well, that's when they brought out the whole parade.

"I'm deputizing you as soon as I remember the words," Arthur said. 

"So I should get out of town now?"

"If you can," Arthur said. Beside him, Leon made a half-hearted attempt to turn onto his side, and once there, he moaned and rolled onto his back with a groan.

"Dammit," Leon said, and he laughed.

 

****

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/jSuW92z)

 

It took a special sort of a man to abandon his post to a complete stranger, taking faith in the drunken stories told late at night by a pair of old soldiers. Arthur wasn't an idiot; he knew why the old Sheriff had passed the star on to him instead of to one of his deputies. His men weren't up to the task, and that task was one that Arthur understood far too well.

That task was doing whatever it took to set things right. And in a place where a thin line was all that stood between good and evil, it all too easy to fall on the wrong side.

Settlers, miners, farmers, ranchers. Bankers, railroad men, barbers, enterprising folk. Thieves, bandits, robbers, no-good convicts on Wanted posters.

This was the West, a wide-open land of promises and new beginnings. Most men came out this way in search of gold and glory. Some men rode West with their hats pulled low over their heads and their collars up, running from their ghosts. 

A rare few headed into the wild of the promised land seeking new lives better than the ones they'd left behind, always looking over their shoulder, afraid that someone or something would drag them back to their pasts. Arthur knew that feeling all too well.

It was grudgingly that Arthur pinned the Sheriff's star to his vest, putting aside his own needs. He delayed his plans to keep on moving until he found what he was looking for -- whatever that was. Albion was shrouded in a plague of menace, the good townspeople surviving despite the low hum of fear rumbling in their bones. He couldn't leave them to their fate, not when there was something that he could do to make it easier for these people to build their new lives in their new homes.

 

****

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/jSuW92z)

 

It took a while to get settled into his new position as Sheriff of Albion. Arthur moved into the rooms above the jailhouse, cleared out the deadwood from among his deputies, and fended off the attention of the matchmaking busybody matrons in town. Somewhere between all that, Arthur also managed to dispense justice.

He'd had it easy for those first few weeks -- weeks where the worst that he had to deal with involved petty thefts at the General Store, a fight breaking out at the barber's, and a few drunks who kept him company through the night until they sobered up in the morning.

The grace period was over now, though, and Arthur was relieved. All the home-cooked meals that the young ladies kept plying him with day after day were making him fat. With the wranglers and cattle-rustlers and raiders out in full force again, Arthur had a legitimate excuse for riding out of town each and every morning, and not coming back until late.

Arthur breathed a big sigh of relief the each and every time he rode out of town. He didn't mind the job. It kept him busy and stopped him from dwelling on things that he had no business fretting over anymore. But it was hard going, trying to settle his nerves when he couldn't turn around without having to tip his hat to one of the eligible women in town. Sophia was coquettish and simpering, always fluttering a fan in front of her face. Vivian was vain and spoiled, and he would never forget how she glared at him when he wouldn't remove his coat to cover a muddy puddle in the road so that she could walk across without soiling her boots. But the most memorable was tomboyish Elena, who argued long and loud with her father in the middle of the town that _"I'll wear those bloomers when you wear a ridin' skirt, Pa. I don't care what you say or how much it cost. They're ridi-- they're riducu-- they're dumb looking, and that's my last word on it, too. Oh, hello Sheriff! Do me a favour, tell my Pa what you think about these damn bloomers --"_

The ladies of Albion were all pretty, fearsome women, and any man would be lucky to have them as a wife, but Arthur wouldn't be one of them. Still, he hid his preference behind passive, detached interest, because he'd much rather find his comfort somewhere else.

He spent his time riding patrol, following tracks, discovering a warren that had been, until recently, a hideout for a small gang of stage robbers, and stopping from ranch to homestead to farm to get to know the good people of Albion. All that riding was too much for his old cavalry horse, though. The bay gelding threw a shoe climbing a small, rocky rise, and promptly went lame.

Arthur dismounted and checked his horse, but it didn't look like there was anything he could do. Years of wartime hadn't taught him more than what he had always known about horses, and the heat that he could feel coming from the gelding's right hind hock was troublesome. 

Arthur pushed his hat back and surveyed his surroundings, trying to remember the map he'd sketched out. He was in luck. Less than a few miles away was the Emerson ranch.

According to those in the know -- and by _those in the know_ , Arthur was talking about Gwaine, who seemed to have information about everyone's dirty laundry and had no compunctions about airing it on the line -- the Emersons were the finest horse breeders in the area. They'd been cleared out of nearly all their stock at the beginning of the war, but rumour had it that they had managed to hide the best of their herd before they were nearly culled of their livelihood. While they made most of their living raising cattle, they were considered to be horse experts, if not _the_ horse experts.

It took Arthur until near sundown to get to the ranch, leading his horse at a slow walk. He was about to loop the reins around one of the posts when a petite woman stepped out of the house, wiping her hands on the apron around her waist. 

"Good evening, ma'am. I'm sorry to bother you, I realize it's dinnertime, but my horse went lame --" Arthur trailed off when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A man emerged from the barn, a corded rope in his hands. He approached the house warily.

The number of attacks on properties these days, Arthur couldn't say that was surprised. Anyone _should_ be treating him warily.

"-- sorry, ma'am. My horse threw a shoe, probably strained something. I --" Arthur took off his hat and ran a rueful hand through his hair. "I should mind my manners is what I should be doing. Missus Emerson, my name's Arthur Pendragon, and I'm --"

"The new Sheriff," the woman said, breaking into a welcoming smile. She lowered her hands and Arthur saw that she hadn't been wiping her hands with the apron, but hiding a Colt .45 revolver in it. She quickly put it away and waved at the man at the barn.

Arthur didn't miss how he stopped hiding the rifle and slung it casually over his shoulder as he came to the house. Arthur glanced down at himself -- he still hadn't figured out where to wear that ridiculous star. His coat had hidden it from where it had been pinned to his vest.

"I am that, ma'am. I wonder if I could borrow a horse to head back to town? I'll leave mine in trade, pay you board and keep --"

"Oh, nonsense," Mrs. Emerson said, frowning at him. "You'll be stayin' for dinner, is what you'll be doin', Sheriff Pendragon. We'll take care of your horse, loan you one of ours. Merlin, take the Sheriff's horse to the barn and look after it, please."

Arthur turned to glance at Merlin as he approached, his stride long and stealth-smooth. The glance became a stare when he took in Merlin's frame: lean but not gangly, corded muscle on the forearms beneath the rolled-up sleeves, narrow hips supporting belted trousers that threatened to slip lower with every step. His shirt was tucked in on one side, pulled out on the other. It was open at the neck, giving Arthur a glimpse of collarbone and a light peppering of dark hair and broad shoulders and a solid chest.

But that wasn't what struck him dumb and wordless. It was his eyes, clear and crisp like the calm summer sky over a roiling sea itching for a fight. It was his cheekbones, kissed a faint pink by a long day in the sun. It was his lips, soft and sweet, promising words that were sharp and honest and cutting and filthy and breathy and arousing, all in equal measure.

"Sure, Mum," Merlin said, reaching to take the reins from Arthur's hands. Arthur blinked several times before letting go, shaking his head once, trying to get his wits about him. Merlin was --

Merlin was looking at him strangely.

Arthur cleared his throat.

"He threw a shoe. Right hind," Arthur said. "There's heat in the hock, I'm worried he might be lame."

"That right?" Merlin said. The sun dipped past the horizon in that moment, the cut in the landscape sending blinding light at them. Merlin squinted and dropped his head before clucking a tongue and leading the horse off.

"Don't you fret," Mrs. Emerson said, patting Arthur's arm and inviting him inside. "Your horse is in good hands."

"I guess so, ma'am," Arthur said, resisting the urge to watch Merlin as he walked away. "Haven't heard anything but good things about the Emersons from the people in town, especially when it comes to horseflesh."

And he could curse them all, Gawine included, for not warning him about Merlin.

 

* * *

 

Merlin came back to the house and helped himself to the stew from the kitchen pot, sitting down across from Arthur without a word. Their knees bumped together under the table and they shared a look that was far from apologetic before Arthur was distracted by Mrs. Emerson.

"Can't imagine this was what you had in mind when you came out here," Mrs. Emerson said, tut-tutting under her breath. She raised a brow at Merlin when Merlin reached for a thick cut of bread, and Merlin wordlessly offered the first choice to Arthur. Arthur picked the same slice that Merlin had been after just because he could, and he was rewarded with a lively flash of anger in the glance Merlin shot his way.

In the dim light of the house, Merlin's eyes had darkened; the black that rimmed the irises of his eyes had sucked in all the blue. But in that instant, there had been a glimmer of gold, like the twinkle of river-panned gold in a miner's bowl.

It was a trick of light, but it was a nice one, because it left Arthur's mouth dry. He couldn't stop looking at Merlin, and knew he should, because people took this kind of staring wrong.

He covered up his silence with a hasty mug of water -- clean and fresh from a well -- and nodded at Mrs. Emerson. "No, ma'am. It wasn't. The old Sheriff caught me by surprise, and, well, my father taught me not to let people down, even if it wasn't my idea to start with. The truth is, I came out this way without any clear notion of what I was going to do. I don't know how to farm, though I'm sure I could learn. My family ran a cattle farm -- some of the best in the state, and I know my way around them --"

Merlin snorted, but he kept his eyes down.

"-- and the only real thing I know, beyond a doubt, is that, bad as it sounds, sometimes you can only get peace at the end of a gun."

Mrs. Emerson made a small sound halfway between a sigh and a complaint, but she was a practical woman and knew that Arthur was right. 

"I heard you came out this way 'cause you were runnin' from the war," Merlin said, getting up. He refilled his bowl, wrapped his hand in a cloth, and picked up the pot, bringing it to the table. He offered his mother a scoop before adding so much stew to Arthur's bowl that it nearly overflowed. 

When he sat down, Merlin made brief eye contact before taking another cut of bread, not bothering to offer it to Arthur first this time.

"Also heard that your pa was the one to drive you out, that he cut you off --"

"Merlin." Mrs. Emerson's admonition was a thunder's crash, even though she hadn't raised her voice. 

Merlin lowered his eyes and stared into his bowl, but he wasn't contrite enough to stop eating. Arthur barely held back a smile. Merlin was, what? Seventeen? Eighteen? Here in the West, people grew up fast. Their lives were full of responsibility and survival; even the youngest child worked from dawn to sundown when they weren't off at school learning their letters. Arthur wasn't much older than Merlin, and he'd grown up easy -- _easy_ , that was, until he'd gone off to war.

But he wasn't so grown up that he didn't feel a bloom of heat deep in his belly that Merlin had been listening to stories about him.

"It's all right, Missus Emerson. Can't deny the truth, though I'd want to know how that got out," Arthur said. Merlin ducked his head, a bit of colour flushing in his face, and he shook his head and shrugged at the same time, refusing to name his source. Arthur decided that it didn't matter, and said, "My father and I never saw eye to eye, but we haven't spoken since I defected to the North and fought against the Confederates. I wouldn't be surprised if my father did disown me, but I never heard it for sure."

He didn't think a telegram from Morgana counted. He could never really tell with her.

"You were Confederate?" Merlin asked, his gaze snapping up. His mother's stern glare drew a muttered apology from him.

"I grew up in the South, yeah," Arthur said, shaking his head. "Joined up just like the other boys in town. Doesn't mean I stood for what they believed in. I always thought slavery, well, it was every kind of wrong. First chance I got, I switched sides and never looked back."

"That must have been hard," Mrs. Emerson said, her tone sympathetic.

"Harder still was when the war was won," Arthur said, lowering his gaze. He stirred his stew but didn't eat, suddenly aware of Merlin's eyes on him. "Didn't know what to do with myself. I was sure my father wouldn't be particularly welcoming if I ever came visiting, and when I heard about people heading West, I figured, well, why not?"

Arthur wondered if it made him a coward for not having the courage to face up to his father, but the only times he let himself think like that were when he was in easy reach of a bottle of whiskey. He shook his head and tore a piece of bread, dipping it into his stew.

"Well, Sheriff, we're all the better for you bein' here, and grateful besides," Mrs. Emerson said.

"He'll regret stoppin' here," Merlin said. He didn't raise his eyes. "Not exactly the sort of place anyone comes when they want to settle down, is it? More people scurryin' out like vermin from a burnin' barn. If it's some peace and quiet he wants out here, he ain't gone far enough."

Arthur sopped up his stew with the heavy bread, the words out of his mouth before he could think about it. "Maybe it's not peace that I'm looking for."

Merlin's eyes went up like a shot, locking with Arthur's; it felt like an eternity that they looked at one another, an undercurrent of revelation between them that was both enticing and shameful. Arthur didn't know which of them broke eye contact first but it was likely that it was both of them at the same time. The flush on his own cheeks felt hot; Arthur was grateful for the scruff of his beard hiding the unexpected blush.

It was a blush that was mirrored on Merlin's cheeks, though, and it pulled an unexpected smile on Arthur's lips.

They finished dinner with random conversation about the town, the upcoming winter festival, the attacks that were coming closer and closer to Albion, which reminded Arthur: "Dinner was delicious, Missus Emerson, and I couldn't ask for finer company."

He absolutely didn't let his gaze slip toward Merlin, who was cleaning up the kitchen table. He must not have been subtle enough about it, because Mrs. Emerson gave him a wry smile.

"But I really should be getting back to town."

"Of course. And do come visit again, Sheriff. You're welcome anytime." Mrs. Emerson patted his arm and took a bowl out of Merlin's hands. "Merlin, why don't you saddle a horse for the Sheriff?"

"Yeah, okay," Merlin said, and he nodded at Arthur, leading him out of the house. He picked up both a coiled rope and a rifle along the way, glancing over his shoulder only once to make sure Arthur was following. Arthur shrugged into his slicker and picked up his own rifle, and followed after Merlin. Merlin didn't speak again until they were nearly halfway to the barn. "Where'd you get your horse?"

"I don't rightly know," Arthur said. He wished there was more light; his eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet, but Merlin didn't seem to have any problems finding the way. "About a week before I ran the lines and headed North, I got caught in a skirmish. Didn't do too well, got knocked off, shot, but I was lucky, it was only a flesh wound, but my horse bolted and I didn't duck the branch coming at me in time. When I woke up, there were bodies everywhere, and there was Rem."

"Rem?"

"Short for Remington," Arthur said. "I saw the Union brand on him, figured it was as good a sign as any that it was time for me to get out of the South. And when I got done with the war, I just kept him. I figure he'd seen enough of war."

"Like you."

"Like me," Arthur agreed. "How is he?"

Merlin lit a lantern inside the barn with the ease of long practice, and the low orange light illuminated the area without killing Arthur's night sight. He stopped in front of the stall with Arthur's gelding; the bay stuck his head through in search for sweets. "He'll be all right. I've got some poultice on it, take some of the swellin' down, but if you ask me?"

Merlin bit his bottom lip.

"I think you should leave him retired. Let him live out his last years at home."

"At home?" Arthur glanced from Merlin to the gelding and back. 

Merlin nodded sharply. "He's one of ours. The army really gutted us for the war. Took some of our best. This one was one of my Pa's favourites. Trained him with his own hands. Pa was really mad when the army took him."

Merlin stroked the horse's cheek absentmindedly. The gelding huffed into his chest. 

"The circle E on his rump, under the army brand? That's yours?" Arthur asked. He didn't ask where Merlin's father was. He didn't need to. The town grapevine had told him everything he needed to know, including the things that he didn't. A few years back, Balinor Emerson had been dragged to the nearest fort to scout out and translate negotiations with the natives, and somewhere along the way things went wrong and Balinor had been killed. The way Arthur had heard it, the army had kept Balinor's horse, and a lot of the folks around these parts thought that was a damn shame.

Having something back that was his father's? Arthur could understand that. He'd give anything to have something of his mother's, but his father had thrown everything away before Arthur was old enough to understand their importance.

"Yeah," Merlin said. When Arthur hesitated -- he was loathe to give up a steady horse, because there weren't many horses who could be stock still when he needed to make a long-distance shot -- Merlin promised, "I'll give you a good trade for him."

"All right," Arthur said. "I'll trust your judgment."

A quirk of a smile pulled at Merlin's lips, and he nodded. "I'll saddle up my trade, then. Get your bags, left it in the stall with Alby."

"Alby?"

"Albatross," Merlin said, and this time the smile became a grin. "Pa called him Albatross. Doesn't roll off the tongue, does it?"

"Neither does _Alby_. Thank God I didn't know that. The boys would've mocked me on the battlefield," Arthur said. Merlin's chuckle was rich, and Arthur savoured the sound before he ducked into the stall. He ran his hands over Rem's -- Alby's -- back and a wave of nostalgia overwhelmed him. Merlin was right, the gelding had probably had more than enough of war and deserved his last years spent out in the relative quiet of the open fields. 

Arthur could smell, rather than see, the mint-sage that must have been mixed into the poultice, and it was by touch, more than anything else, that he found his saddlebags. He shouldered them and stepped out of the stall, catching a glimpse of a white colt peeking out from behind another stall. It made a soft, whinnying sound before hiding itself when Arthur moved to approach. Merlin distracted him from the chase by leading a horse down the stocks.

Merlin had picked out a big black for him, easily a hand and a half taller than the gelding. Arthur didn't consider himself a good eye for horseflesh, but he could tell that this horse was a breed above the rest, with clean lines and solid muscle, his eyes alert and his ears forward. Merlin had already saddled him -- and it was just as well, because Arthur's saddle wouldn't have fit the black's broader back -- and the horse took the extra weight of Arthur's bags without a flinch. Arthur holstered his rifle in the loop and took a step back.

"I think I'm getting the better part of the bargain here," Arthur said, tipping his hat back. He couldn't see Merlin's expression, but he thought he heard a _'course you did_ snort. "What's his name?"

"Hengröen," Merlin said. "I call him Hank, if that's easier."

"Much," Arthur said, taking the reins that Merlin offered. Their fingers brushed, and Merlin wasn't in a hurry to draw his hand away.

"Bring him by sometime, yeah?" Merlin said. 

Arthur mounted quickly; Hank was four hooves solid on the ground, mouthing at the bit. He looked down at Merlin. The lantern-light behind him gave Merlin a halo, limning his black hair and shoulders in fire, and Arthur shouldn't be able to see the spark of gold in his eyes, but he did.

"I'll bring him by," Arthur promised, and waved over his shoulder, pushing Hank into a slow trot away from the homestead.

Gwaine was outside the tavern when Arthur rode back into town, smoking a rolled-up cigarette and chatting with one of the Saloon's girls. He untangled himself from her long legs and took a step down. "Well, I'll be, Sheriff. That ain't the horse you rode out on, is it?"

"No, Gwaine," Arthur said patiently. He watched as the girl, bored already, pushed her way through the swinging doors, put out at being ignored. "Mine went lame. I went by the --"

"That's Merlin's horse. Never thought he'd let anyone ride him, never mind let someone take him out of his sight," Gwaine said. "Must've taken quite a shine to you, Sheriff, and that's not fair play. You get his horse when I can't even get that boy to give me the time of day."

Arthur ignored the wink and rode on, desperately ignoring the fluttering warmth in his belly.

 

****

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/jSuW92z)

 

"Good afternoon, Sheriff," Mrs. Skoog said, curtsying a little as she walked past. Arthur tried not to notice her fifteen-year old daughter's blush or the way she covered her hand with her mouth to giggle.

He tipped his hat. "Good afternoon, Missus Skoog, Miss Skoog."

"My name's Melinda," the daughter said.

Arthur glanced at Mrs. Skoog, saw her shoulders slump in sufferance, and said smoothly, "Miss Melinda. Fine day, isn't it?"

"Shapin' up that way," Mrs. Skoog said, standing tall and stoic, ignoring the way Melinda tugged at her arm. If it weren't for the thin set of her lips, Arthur probably wouldn't have noticed the small war being waged in front of him. Mrs. Skoog kept Melinda close to her as she walked past, slowing down when something caught her eye. Arthur followed her gaze to the road and nearly burst into a grin when he saw Merlin driving a wagon, a compact white-and-brown paint pulling it with a quick skip to its canter. 

Merlin's attention was fixed on his horse, making sure they didn't run down anyone crossing the street, but as soon as they passed by the Jail, Merlin glanced over.

Arthur's heart skipped a beat when Merlin smiled a brilliant smile and waved as he drove on, slowing down before stopping in front of the General Store.

"Well, I'll be," Mrs. Skoog said. "We hardly ever see young Mr. Emerson in town, do we? I wonder what brings him by without Mrs. Emerson."

Mrs. Skoog was one of the town's chattiest gossips; Arthur wasn't surprised when she turned around and headed for the store, her expression purposeful. Melinda was dragged along behind her, making eyes at Arthur, waving at him as they disappeared up the road. Arthur watched them go, wishing he had the same liberty. 

"I'm wonderin' that, too. Ain't often anyone ever sees him in town, and more's the pity. Must be important, whatever it is," Gwaine said, coming out of the door. His hair was a knotted gnarl, his jaw scruffy, his clothes rumpled, and he _reeked_ of cheap whiskey and cigar smoke, sour and nasty. Gwaine squinted against the sunlight, smoothed down his vest with sure hands, and patted his pockets until he found his watch.

Arthur didn't rise to the bait.

"Could be that there was a break in the chores," Gwaine said, scowling at the faceplate of his watch, defeated when he couldn't hook the latch to check the time. He squinted again, and shook his head. "Naw, that can't be. Our Merlin's always workin'. Leaves it to a ranch hand to bring his Mum in and deal with the supply run. Sure as shit doesn't come into town to see me --"

"Not much to see, is there?" Arthur muttered, shooting Gwaine a sidelong look, eyeing him up and down. Gwaine was none the worse for wear after having slept off a raging drunk and a bar fight, and he was starting to get used to having Gwaine around. Hell, over the last month, he'd seen so much of Gwaine that he was tempted to permanently delegate a cell for him.

Arthur would much have preferred to have Merlin to look at, come to that, but, like Mrs. Skoog said, Merlin rarely came to town. Arthur had stopped by the Emerson twice over the last month as part of his patrols, but both times, Merlin was off checking on the free-ranging cattle and wasn't expected back for a few days. 

He had the worst luck, because whenever it was Leon's turn to head out that way, he'd gotten a bowl of Mrs. Emerson's stew and had seen Merlin. Every time. Leon came back with stories -- Merlin nearly getting sat on by a bull who didn't fancy letting Merlin check his hooves, a busted fence that kept Merlin out on the range an extra day, a scrape down Merlin's arm when a stubborn cow wouldn't get out of the way when it came time to branding her calf. But Leon also came back with well wishes and invitations to "come visit soon" from Mrs. Emerson, and what warmed Arthur the most and kept his mood from sinking was Leon telling him how Merlin would always ask after Arthur before anything else.

Arthur stared wistfully toward the General Store, but a crowd had gathered outside of the Saloon, and someone had hitched their horse on the railing next to the barber's shop. He couldn't see Merlin, never mind the wagon.

"Maybe it's a girl," Gwaine said, exhaling a cloud of smoke from the cigarette Arthur hadn't even seen him roll, never mind light up. He shook the match out and flung it out into the street, where it was promptly trampled by a passer-by, and gave Arthur a knowing look.

Arthur grit his teeth and studiously turned his head away. He was not going to be goaded by the likes of a no-good gambler like Gwaine.

"Exceptin' no one's ever seen him after a girl," Gwaine said, taking a squint-eyed drag. "There was Freya, but she got herself married off years back to some posh twat out East, so the whole family up and went after her, takin' any excuse to get out of this hole. He didn't seem too heartbroken that she was gone, though."

Arthur didn't answer. He stuck his thumb into his belt, looked out into the crowd, and ignored the dull ache in his chest.

"Wish he'd been, I'd have been more than happy to --"

"Are you still here?" Arthur groused.

"-- make him forget she ever existed," Gwaine continued, going on as if Arthur hadn't interrupted. "Though I'd wager if you'd been around then, he would've more than liked it if you'd given him a nod."

"Turned you down flat, did he?" Leon asked, joining them on the stoop.

"As a board," Gwaine said, picking tobacco from his tongue. He flicked both the leaf and the ash from his cigarette out into the street. "There's lots of talk about that boy. Connivin' old biddies tryin' to pair him up, because that homestead of theirs? It might not look like much, but they own the most land, they've got the best steer, and plenty of folk pay high prices for their horses. The young ladies smile at our Merlin when he walks by, hopin' they'll be the ones to catch his eye --"

A wagon creaked to a stop in front of them, and the piebald white-and-brown paint tossed its head up and down before giving its mane a good shake, pawing at the ground impatiently. There were pebbles braided into its mane, a knot of eagle feathers, and barely anything for a bridle. It was a surprise that the horse had stopped at all considering that the reins looked like it might snap at any second.

The wagon had several large burlap bags, a few boxes, a roll of coarse fabric, and a few blankets, but Arthur wasn't paying attention to that. He spotted the rifle just under the seat -- always wise to have when there were bandits about -- but he only had eyes for Merlin.

Merlin had one eye closed and the other one squinting against the bright noonday sun; the hand he used to shield his eyes wasn't doing him much good. He had a broad smile on his lips and a bit of colour on his cheeks, and he said, "Afternoon, Sheriff."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Emerson," Arthur said, trying and failing to keep from grinning wide.

There was a pause, awkward and uncomfortable, as if everything he'd wanted to say had vanished into thin air. Merlin lowered his eyes for an instant before sneaking another look at Arthur. "How's Hank?"

"Giving the stableboy Hell and Perdition every time he tries to put cut-rate oats in his feed," Arthur said. "Never thought that a damn horse would make sure that I'm not cheated out of good coin."

Merlin's big smile returned. "Yeah, that's Hank, spoilt as sure as the day's long. Fancies himself a King's horse or somethin'."

"I wonder who's been spoiling him and letting him think that. Couldn't have been you, could it? " Arthur asked, coming down a step, wanting to get that much closer to Merlin before the impatient paint moved forward, whether Merlin meant to drive on or not. Merlin ducked his head, bashful this time, but the smile hadn't left his lips and his cheeks looked to have taken on more colour than before. Arthur swallowed, trying to distract himself from the curve of Merlin's neck, the way his smile seemed private and just for him. "How's your mother?"

"Mum's great. She's been wonderin' when you're gonna come by our way again. Said you'd mentioned havin' a hankerin' for a good roast, that you haven't had one since…" Merlin waved a hand in the air and shrugged. "Should I tell her it'll be soon?"

"Should be," Arthur said, his voice rougher than it should be, and he coughed to clear it. 

"Sunday?" Merlin pressed.

"Sunday." Arthur nodded. "You could take a look at Hank, when I'm over, make sure he's spoilt good and proper."

"I could, yeah," Merlin said, and they looked at each other long enough for the sun to shift in the sky, for a cloud to pass across and give everyone a respite from the long stretch of Indian Summer that they were having these days. It was just enough for Merlin to lower his hand and for Arthur to see that the flush on his cheek wasn't because he'd been out working out in the open sky all day. 

It did something to Arthur to see Merlin like this, earnest and shy, and he let himself think that maybe, just maybe, the attraction he felt for Merlin was reciprocated. Courage welled in his chest, but it wasn't quite enough for him to say what he wanted to say.

"I'll tell Mum, then. She'll be pleased," Merlin said. He touched his forehead before making a soft sound with his tongue; the white-and-brown paint snorted and dragged the wagon out of its trails before trotting off at a good clip.

Arthur watched him go, feeling a right sop for smiling the way he was, and when he'd managed to cover it up under a mask of stoic sternness, it was to turn around and see Leon trying not to smile and Gwaine stomping out the last of his cigarette.

"And look who's caught his eye. Prettiest Sheriff I've ever seen this side of Oklahoma, and if it weren't the most adorable thing I ever did see, them two together," Gwaine said, smirking. He winked, but the action made him wince and press two fingers to his forehead with a moan.

Arthur gave Gwaine a withering look and glanced at Leon, who at least had the good sense to keep his amusement to himself, and said, "Man's still drunk. Put him back behind bars."

 

* * *

 

"Dinner was delicious," Arthur said, wiping his hands on the napkin and collecting the dirty dishes. Merlin took the plates out of his hand, their fingers brushing with a delicious shock, before he could bring them over to the washbasin. "Thank you for inviting me, Missus Emerson."

"Oh, it's nice to be able to cook for more than just the two of us," Mrs. Emerson said. "But I'll be honest. It was Merlin's idea."

"Mum!" Merlin shot his mother a mortified glare. His blue eyes brightened in the reflected firelight, but his cheeks were definitely red. He darted a quick look at Arthur and promptly turned away, his shoulders tense, his head down. The plates clinked noisily as Merlin scraped them off and carefully slid them into the lukewarm water.

Arthur watched Merlin with a small smile before realizing that Mrs. Emerson was watching him speculatively. Arthur started to say something only to find that he had run out of words -- even the polite platitudes that he couldn't live without. growing up in his father's household, had escaped him. He was a fish out of water, gasping for air and trying not to embarrass himself further when Mrs. Emerson patted his arm.

"Well. Seeing as I cooked, I will let you gentlemen do the washin'. I'll be in the sittin' room, Merlin. I want to finish that quilt for the Wilsons. They certainly could use it after last week."

Arthur flinched inwardly. The Wilsons had been attacked by bandits -- they'd been practically cleaned out. It was luck alone that they'd been at church when they were robbed. From what Arthur had been able to tell, if someone was home when the bandits came by, the violence levels escalated and people were killed more often than not. As it was, the Wilsons still had a roof over their heads, even though they didn't have much of anything in it anymore. 

Arthur and Leon had done their best, but they could only follow the tracks so far before they split up in too many different directions. The trails sometimes led them into dead ends, or the ground was so dried up it was a hard pack that wouldn't signal a herd of buffalo ahead until they tripped over them. And the other deputies -- they did their best, but they were something short of useless. He needed new men -- _better_ men -- if he hoped to catch the bandits and stop them.

"Sure, Mum," Merlin said, and after a heartfelt _you're welcome for dinner any time_ , Mrs. Emerson left them alone. Merlin finished scraping the dishes and putting things away, shaking his head when Arthur stood up to help, and he left the plates to soak. "Coffee? Can't promise it's any good, it's been by the fire since noon, I think --"

"Coffee sounds perfect," Arthur said, and if he stared a little too long at the fine bones in Merlin's hand when he put the cup in front of Arthur, who was to call him on it?

"Shame about the Wilsons," Merlin said, his tone neutral. He didn't meet Arthur's eyes as he sat down at the table across from him, their knees brushing the way they'd been _just touching_ all evening long, driving Arthur mad from the tantalizing sensation of fabric brushing against fabric every time Merlin shifted and twitched.

He shifted and twitched a whole lot. Possibly on purpose, from the way the tips of his ears nearly glowed red whenever Arthur looked up.

"Yeah," Arthur said, bringing the cup to his lips to test the temperature. The coffee was just shy of boiling, and from the smell alone, it was strong enough to wrestle a bull. "Wish we could do more. It's the same thing every time. The robbers scatter and we lose their trail, and I don't have enough men to send out in every direction in the hopes that one of them strikes gold, and by the time we've gone back to the split point to try another track when one's a dead end, it's already too late and the trails have gone cold."

"So get more men," Merlin said.

"Are you volunteering?" Arthur asked.

A quirk of a sheepish smile pulled at Merlin's mouth, and he bowed his head and shook it. _No_. "I've the ranch to run. Plus, Mum might kill me."

"Understandable," Arthur said with a smirk. "She's a fearsome woman."

"You don't know the half of it," Merlin said, glancing up. Arthur found it endearing how Merlin would sneak a look at him through those long lashes, and just as quickly glance away in fear of being caught, but he also wished that Merlin would just _look_ at him and not shy away. "But I'm serious. You should get more men."

"I have my deputies." Even as he said it, Arthur winced. There were two, maybe three men -- not counting Leon, who was his second by default -- that Arthur thought well enough of, but the rest were a nightmare. Some of them couldn't even stay on their damn horses without falling off.

"They can't shoot their way out of a wet burlap sack," Merlin said with a snort. "Can't lasso a calf without gettin' themselves tangled up. Lucky if they don't mount their horses endin' up facin' the horse's ass half the time."

Arthur hid a smirk behind his cup. He sipped it carefully and put it down again. "And where would I find more men around here? These parts, there's farmers --"

"Don't know what it was like, growin' up where you did," Merlin said, his cheeks flushing hotly, "But 'round these parts, it ain't nothin' to us, handlin' a gun. We know the land better than the deputies. You should rustle up a posse, get some of us with you --"

"What have you been shooting at, Merlin? Bits of wood and tin and glass lining up a fence rail? Wild game to put on the dinner table? Shooting at a man -- shooting a man -- it's not the same thing," Arthur said with a sigh. "And it's not easy. You see intelligence in someone's eyes. You think to yourself this is another human being. Your finger just won't work anymore and you can't squeeze the trigger. But the other man won't feel the same, and he won't care about your mother and he won't care about someone else's kids. Believe me, Merlin, they'll shoot you dead while your hand's a-trembling and your head's trying to convince your heart to pull the trigger."

"I'd pull the trigger," Merlin said, his tone determined. "If it came down to me and someone else. I'd do it."

Arthur nodded at the fierceness in Merlin's words, no different than the resolute conviction of young soldiers on the front line of the battlefields for the first time, or those who sought Arthur out hoping to join the ranks of the army's snipers, cocksure about their skill and their aim, but too soft and gentle to let their hearts grow cold. Arthur remembered those days -- he _lived_ those days, where his chest hurt and ached from the ice that still lingered there, when he had to leave his hand over his heart to make sure it was still beating, because he couldn't feel it otherwise.

"I don't doubt it," Arthur said evenly. And maybe he did believe it, that Merlin would do whatever it took to protect his mother and his land and those he cared about. He just didn't want Merlin to _have_ to do it.

"How many people did you kill?" Merlin asked, his voice a hushed whisper. He shook his head nearly as soon as he finished asking, and said, "Never mind. You don't have to tell me."

Arthur finished his coffee and stared out the window, seeing the heavy dark of the night encroaching, and figured he should get going soon, even if he really would rather stay here with Merlin, just talking. He found himself leaning back a little, biting the inside of his cheek in thought, and when he came back to himself, it was to catch Merlin staring at him intently, as if afraid that Arthur would disappear.

"I try not to think about it," Arthur said finally. 

Merlin didn't answer. His long fingers twined around his cup, alternating between stretching out to envelop around it, to tapping along the side. The movements were soothing and mesmerizing and it wasn't until an awkward silence had fallen that Arthur realized those were the same motions Merlin would make when trying to calm an edgy horse. He didn't know if he should be flattered or offended, and he stopped himself from thinking too much of what it would feel like to have those fingers on his skin.

"I know I need more men," Arthur finally allowed. "I've been thinking of calling in a few favours."

Merlin's smile was blinding.

 

****

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/jSuW92z)

 

There hadn't been any Harvest Festivals back at home. There had always been cotillions and fancy dinners and parades that were finished with dignified rides on horse-drawn carriage around the countryside. 

It was a something of a culture shock for Arthur that morning when he rolled out of bed, his bones aching from yet another long ride chasing after yet another vapour trail though the wilderness. He'd returned to town, trusting Hank to bring him home, the horse ambling down the main street with the dawn on their heels. He hadn't even noticed the garlands hanging all over town, fresh blooms of orange and yellow and braided leaves and all the colourful ribbons around the centre square of town, until he looked out the window of his bedsit over the Jail, wondering to himself, _what in tarnation is that_ smell _?_

He stared out on the streets of Albion with the gobsmacked countenance of a man who'd never seen a Harvest Festival before. Apparently there would be food and games and dancing and drinking.

That alone was enough to make Arthur rub his face in frustration, trying to work through the logistics of keeping an eye on things when there was a good probability that the majority of his force would be drunk before sundown.

Arthur would be grateful when reinforcements finally arrived. He'd sent out twenty telegrams and five had confirmed that they'd come as soon as they untangled themselves from their current obligations. At least two of the twenty wouldn't respond, because they were the cantankerous sort, and there was a fifty-fifty chance that they'd show up. A couple of Leon's acquaintances from the war were on their way up, too, and if they were anything like Leon, well, Arthur thought that Albion would be the better for it.

Still, they couldn't come too soon. Arthur hadn't had a moment's rest. The instant he'd realized that most of the town would be out celebrating, Arthur initiated precautions -- he had already told his deputies what he expected them to do, where he wanted them positioned, how he wanted them to comport themselves. He tried very hard to ignore how it wasn't even noon, but two of his most useless deputies were already deep into their cups.

It was going to be a long night on top of an already long night, and Arthur steadied himself with a thick cup of coffee that sat in his belly like burning coal.

He sampled the wares -- it was a little hard not to when every busy-bodying matchmaker in town shoved baked goods into his hands and urged him to "try a bite" and extolled the virtues of whomever had made it, which usually amounted to their daughters, their nieces, or even themselves. He was trying to figure out how to spit out the worst mince pie he'd ever tasted without insulting Mrs. Henderson when he heard a snort behind him.

"And my Lily's very keen on keeping the house straight all the time. Everything is always spotless. And not a better cook you'll find in town --" Mrs. Henderson sputtered to a stop and glared at Merlin.

"If you're boastin' tonight, Missus Henderson, I'd at least boast the truth, because we all know my Mum's bakin' beats everyone else's, or she wouldn't have won first prize with her pies for the last eight years straight --"

"She only wins because she makes eyes at the judge," Mrs. Henderson snapped, and Arthur saw Merlin's eyes roll.

"You impingin' on my Mum's honour? That's not nice. I suppose I ain't surprised if it's comin' from you, but I'll be sure to let my Mum know that's how you feel about her." Mrs. Henderson's face turned a curious shade of _don't you dare_ , and Merlin's amusement came through when he added, "By the by, if you're done throwin' Lily's virtues at the Sheriff, you should know that Lily's busy tossin' her _other_ virtues in Tommy Lee's face out by the stables, and from the sounds I heard walkin' by --"

Mrs. Henderson positively squawked, and she was off at a run that couldn't be described as dignified, no matter how rose-coloured the glasses.

"-- sure was as if Tommy Lee was appreciatin' them a whole lot," Merlin finished, raising his voice after Mrs. Henderson, attracting the attention of several people nearby. Once they realized it was Merlin, there was an exchange of smiles and people returned to what they were doing.

Merlin's grin was smug and pleased, and if Arthur hadn't been looking for it, there was determination and a flare of jealousy there, too, there and gone in the blink of an eye now that --

Oh, Arthur didn't rightly know, but all he cared about was that up and down look of shy possessiveness that he had gotten from Merlin and how it sent a heady warmth through him. Merlin leaned closer, and Arthur got a whiff of homemade lye soap and clean water and all things good and _earthy_. It almost made him dizzy.

"You'll be wantin' to spit that out," Merlin said, taking the pie from Arthur's hands, the fork that Mrs. Henderson had used to shove a big meaty mouthful into Arthur's mouth still stuck inside. "I got it on good authority that it wasn't Lily who made that pie, and everyone 'round here knows Missus H ain't the sort to waste somethin' she got for free, not when she's got a rat infestation --"

Arthur coughed and turned around in a hurry, darting past a couple flirting by the corner. He made it behind the building just in time to spit out his mouthful, to gag and retch and throw up whatever else he'd eaten by accident. It wasn't as if he hadn't eaten rat meat before, but at least it had been better cooked. In a stew. With a lot of strong flavours to mask the taste. 

He turned around to see Merlin lingering in the shadows of the alley, his body framed in the soft glow of lantern-light from the square, his shoulder leaning against the wall, one hand around a cup.

"Rat not good enough for your sensible belly?" Merlin teased.

"Rat's plenty fine, but not when I've seen Mister Henderson buying rat poison at the General Store and I'm in no hurry to keel over dying because someone fed me pie," Arthur groused. "At least tell me no one else's eaten any --"

"Naw. We've got more sense than that," Merlin said, and even though his face was shadowed, Arthur could hear the smile in his voice.

"Quit your mocking and do something useful, _Mer_ lin," Arthur said, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. 

"Like what?"

"Like giving me your drink, for starters, so that I can wipe the taste of rat pie from my tongue," Arthur said. He took the cup out of Merlin's hand, their fingers brushing, neither of them pulling away for a long second before Merlin's grasp slackened and Arthur could take it from him. Arthur didn't pay much mind to it, swirling the sarsaparilla and spitting it out for good measure before knocking the rest of it back.

The entire time, he felt Merlin's gaze on him, shifting off to the side to stop blocking the lantern light and to let it fall on Arthur. Arthur didn't know what Merlin was looking at, and he shoved the cup back in Merlin's hands to distract himself. To distract them both.

It didn't work. Merlin's gaze seemed to weight against Arthur like the softest brush of silk. "What?"

"Oh," Merlin said, a quiet startle in his voice. His head ducked down in a familiar gesture, endearing and shy. He toed the ground with his shoe, and Arthur wondered if Merlin was spending too much time with his horses again. "It's just how you talk."

"How I talk?" Arthur asked, raising a brow. He'd worked hard at it, because there were those in the war that didn't trust a man with the wrong accent, but there were times when the South came through in his voice no matter what he did. Folks these parts didn't seem to care much about where a man had come from. They paid more mind to a person's mettle, but day by day Arthur found himself slipping more and more into Southern dulcet tones. "Is something wrong with the way I talk?"

"Naw," Merlin said, and again there was a familiar mannerism -- a slight lift of his chin that Arthur knew was always coupled with a sneaky glance from under his long eyelashes. "'S nice, is all. Learned and proper-like, like Miz Nate at the school, except nicer."

Arthur was glad that it was dark where they were, that his beard hid the flush on his cheeks.

"You're making fun," Arthur said.

"'M not," Merlin said, toeing the ground one more time before straightening. He took a step back and turned around.

A flash of colour around Merlin's arm caught Arthur's eye. It was a handkerchief, folded over until it was a band, knotted around his biceps, the colour so vibrant that he didn't need the meagre light to tell him that it was red.

"What's that?" Arthur asked, catching Merlin's arm and missing, but snatching at the handkerchief long enough to give it a sharp tug.

Merlin's expression went from shy and carefree to troubled and upset in the lantern-light, and he shrugged. "It's for the dance."

"The dance?"

"Yeah. Um. I'm going to need more drink for that," Merlin said, laughing, but it was hollow and bereft. He held up his empty cup in mock salute and he was gone before Arthur could ask any more.

 

* * *

 

If there was one thing that Arthur prided himself on, it was being observant. When the festival organizers shooed people from the main area in the square to set up for the dancing and the musicians -- a varied bunch from all walks of life who played more often in the Church -- started up the music, Arthur noticed a disproportionate number of men and women. He thought that would make for an uneven line until he saw some of the men pull other men into the line to partner up with them.

Arthur tilted his head, a little confused.

Southern dancing involved Virginian reels or quadrilles at cotillions, with men dressed in starched shirts and pressed tuxedoes, and women wearing delectable hoop gowns trimmed with satin and lace and polished beads. The music was light and subdued, speeding up or slowing down as needed, every step precise and measured and woe betide the man who stepped out of line.

The Wild, Wild West had its own definition of dignified dancing, and it was nothing like he'd ever imagined.

There was a man calling the dances in a rousing voice that boomed over the music and the clapping of the crowd framing the area. Footfalls clacked and thumped in a drumming rhythm to accompany the laughter and the chatter filling the night. The dancing pairs split up in eights and then in fours, one partner guiding the other across the floor in a confusion of never-ending movement. It was a wonder that the original partners ever found themselves together again toward the end.

The dance ended and another one started up, but not without a bit of a squabble over the young ladies available for dancing -- over one lady in particular, though Arthur couldn't remember her name. Before Arthur could work his way over to break up the fight, one of the two men dashed into the crowd and dragged another man onto the floor. A twitch of amusement worked its way across Arthur's lips, because the crowd was laughing and pointing as if a man dancing with another man was just another everyday occurrence. He was baffled, because he could easily imagine the scandal and the fainting Southern belles if anyone had tried that back home.

It wasn't just any man that was chosen to play the ladies' role on the dance floor, he realized. That was a privilege allowed only a few -- teenage boys who were slight and fair or clean-shaven young men. They all wore a handkerchief of colour around their arm to stand out in the crowd. One or two even wore an apron, and someone had borrowed a lady's feathered hat.

Arthur remembered the red handkerchief around Merlin's arm and flushed when he caught himself actively searching for Merlin -- first on the dance floor, then again in the crowd.

Merlin was nowhere to be seen.

Arthur felt a wave of disappointment that was accompanied with a wave of relief that he wouldn't have to see Merlin dancing with someone -- only to have everything crash to the pit of his belly in a jealous fit when he saw Merlin dragged onto the floor. 

Merlin was resigned to his fate, but he didn't make it easy for the other man, a scraggly-haired farm hand that Arthur had seen over at the Emerson homestead on occasion -- Will, his name was. Merlin ground in his heels and lingered at the edges of the dance floor to take another fortifying swallow of his drink before Will wrenched it out of his hand and pulled him in.

Arthur barely listened to the caller, working out the dance on his own, never once taking his eyes from Merlin. Merlin moved well -- offering up only enough energy to keep up with his partner and to go through the motions, listless and uninterested and only there because he had to, or because he was roped into it. Merlin wanted to be somewhere else, that much was clear.

"I'm thinking our boy would have a better time of it if you were dancin' with him," Gwaine said, drinking whiskey straight from a flask. He tossed back his hair and wriggled his brows shamelessly at Arthur, as if trying to make a point of some sort.

"I'm working," Arthur said stiffly, shooting Gwaine a glare.

"You've got deputies scattered all over town, keeping an eye on things. Granted, most of them are drunk by now and the rest well on their way, but who's to say our Sheriff can't have himself a little fun, too?" Gwaine was watching the dance, smiling and winking at all the ladies who were swung past them, but his eyes, more often than not, drifted toward Merlin. Arthur tried to ignore the knot in his belly and failed.

"If you're so sweet on him, why don't you go out there?" Arthur asked. He regretted the words nearly as soon as they were out of his mouth. He grit his teeth when all Gwaine did was laugh.

"Oh, I think it's clear I'm not the one he's interested in." Gwaine broke into a large grin. "And I'm likin' all my dancin' on a horizontal surface, if y'know what I mean."

Arthur grunted, but didn't dignify what Gwaine said with a response.

The dance wound down and the participants drifted off while new ones took the floor. Arthur dipped his head in a polite nod as a pretty girl walked past.

Gwaine shoved him onto the dance floor. Arthur stumbled, catching himself a little too late, and crashed into a solid body, warm and steadying. Fingers wrapped around his arm and held him until he found his balance -- only he lost it again when he looked up into Merlin's eyes.

Bright blue and rimmed with the deepest black, specks of gold flashing as if with their own light.

Arthur stared in them for so long, he'd forgotten to breathe. The warmth of Merlin's body was searing against his. The slow smile spreading across Merlin's lips made him forget for an instant that he had grown up in a place where the slightest hint of something _perverse_ could ruin not only a man's reputation, but the man himself, because it seemed like he had a chance for what he wanted here in this place where no one seemed to care.

He was jostled again, this time from behind. New dancers were filling up the floor, and when Arthur tried to pull away from Merlin, he found his hand caught.

Merlin raised an eyebrow, and there was a hint of a small smile -- the first that Arthur had seen on him since Merlin had been dragged to the dance floor -- accompanying the questioning head-tilt toward the others.

Arthur bit the bullet and let his hand close around Merlin's wrist, savouring the feeling of soft skin against the rough of his palm. "Care to dance?"

Merlin rolled his eyes, and for an instant, Arthur thought he'd misinterpreted things. "Must I?" Merlin asked, but there was a teasing lilt to his tone, and this time, the smile tugging at his lips earlier was full and genuine.

"Wouldn't do to antagonize the Sheriff," Arthur said, pulling Merlin with him. There was that reluctance he'd seen earlier, but this time it was more contrived, as if he were putting on a show. Merlin's fingers twined in Arthur's until Arthur rearranged their arms to place Merlin's hand on top of his own.

"Done this before?" Merlin asked.

"Some. Nothing like this," Arthur said. "I'm counting on you not to make me look like a fool."

"Do that well enough on your own," Merlin said cheekily. He gave Arthur a coy look from under those long eyelashes, and a warmth flushed down Arthur's spine.

"Neighbours balance and swing," the crier started, pausing a few beats before adding, "Down the hall. Turn as a couple and come back up and bend the line to a circle."

There was a small quirk to Merlin's lips that Arthur resolutely ignored, but he couldn't help but be grateful for the slight press of Merlin's fingers as he guided Arthur where they needed to go.

They bowed to their partners at the signal, circled three quarters of the way around, swung off to the left three quarters into a turn, trading off with another partner, and bowed before repeating it all in reverse and returning to their original partner.

Arthur was encouraged by Merlin's smile, but the fleeting touches of fingertips and brushes of arms and hips was maddening. He lost Merlin when the ladies chained across the way and were swung around by their new partners, and it was a torturous wait before the steps were reversed. Seeing Merlin chain his way back to him put a grin on Arthur's face that didn't fade, and when Merlin's hand slid into his, it was a perfect fit.

Merlin's hand was firm on Arthur's shoulder, and when Arthur's hand slid down Merlin's back, he let it linger in the curve.

When they broke apart for the next round, there was a flush on Merlin's cheeks.

For all his apprehension, the dance ended far sooner than Arthur liked. He stood in front of Merlin, one hand slipping down Merlin's arm to touch his hip, the both of them breathless and flushed.

 _Another dance?_ Arthur was about to ask, when someone called out, "Merlin!"

There was Mrs. Emerson, waving at them both.

"Sorry, I promised Mum I'd drive back with her before it got too late," Merlin said. His head ducked down and he tugged at the handkerchief until the knot loosened. He balled it up and wrung it between his hands. "I'll be seein' you, yeah?"

"Yeah," Arthur said, trying not to sound disappointed. He watched Merlin head off, not wanting to turn away in case Merlin looked back, but it wasn't long before Mrs. Emerson and Merlin disappeared in the crowd. Arthur left the dance area to resume his post.

Gwaine elbowed him. "Well, if my heart didn't go a-pitter-patter to watch the two of you together. Sweetest couple I've ever seen this side of the Mississippi -- dare I say those are weddin' bells I'm hearin'?"

Arthur gave Gwaine a long, withering look and unfolded his arms. "Well, Mister Green, I do believe you're a raging drunk. You're disturbing the peace and quiet of this good town. I'll have to lock you up for your safety."

No one paid any mind to Gwaine's protests when Arthur hauled him up the road to the Jail.

 

****

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/jSuW92z)

 

The Wilsons were lovely, friendly people with two unmarried daughters. The oldest, Mithian, was a wild child who spent more time riding the ranch than tending to her chores around the house, while Sefa had a penchant for temper tantrums and rude remarks that would have gotten her a spanking anywhere else. The Wilsons were keen on having a "strong man" in the house who would inherit the homestead when they retired, and they tried everything within their means to keep Arthur at the house.

The entire time that he was there, getting the grand tour of the new barn and avoiding Sefa's attempt to tumble him into the hay, Arthur was thinking about Merlin.

He hadn't seen Merlin since the Fall Festival, and not for want of trying, either. He tried to keep his regular patrols out down the Emersons' way on a weekly basis, but when Mrs. Emerson patted his arm kindly and said that Merlin was out riding on both of his first two trips out, Arthur increased his rotation so that he was out that way twice a week.

And twice a week for nearly a month, the most he'd seen of Merlin was his retreating back as he galloped off on one errand or another.

Arthur was starting to think that Merlin was avoiding him.

Arthur was trying to decide if he should head out that way for an impromptu visit -- the third this week alone -- when he shook his head and turned back toward town. There was a thing about being too needy, and...

He was needy. He needed to see Merlin again. He wanted to touch Merlin, he wanted to see Merlin's smile. 

It was... embarrassing. He was too old for this. He... oh, Hell, he wanted Merlin far too much, and he knew it too.

Arthur rode into town, nodding to John Pellinor and Charles Percival. They'd arrived that morning on the heels of Lance Dulac and his pretty wife, Gwen, sorting themselves out quickly and turning up at the Jail a few hours later. Arthur gave them a quick overview of the situation, swore them in and gave them slightly-tarnished badges and pronounced them good to go. It was Leon who unrolled their rough map, gestured to the patrol zones, and said they could get started as soon as they squared up and settled in.

He was grateful that they had agreed to come. Pellinor and Percival were solid, steady people. Cool-headed under fire, logical and pragmatic, intimidating when they needed to be, but soft and friendly when they didn't. 

The sun was setting, and he was surprised to see them outside the Jail, taking in the town. He pulled on the reins and Hank came to a stop, pawing at the ground once. The barn was in sight, and Hank wanted his oats. Arthur patted his side and squinted against the setting sun. "Shouldn't you two be fighting over the last room at the boarding house?"

"Lost the coin toss to Lance," Pellinor said with a shrug. "If the cots in the cell ain't taken tonight, we'll sleep there."

"The cots aren't much," Arthur said.

"A damn sight better than some of the places we've slept," Perceval said.

"Some of the ladies down the road are willing to rent us a room," Pellinor said. "The looks of them, though..."

Pellinor whistled through his teeth and made a vague gesture with his hand.

Arthur twisted in his saddle and glanced around before leaning in. "If you're not careful, they'll have you hitched up by tomorrow."

Percival flinched and shuddered.

"Yeah, that's the feelin' I got," Pellinor said with a rueful chuckle. "Not that gettin' hitched is a bad thing, mind. Would just like it to be a choice, yeah? And it don't hurt none if my future bride-to-be is easy on the eye."

"In other words, if it's wearin' a skirt, he'll chase it," Percival said, his big arm tensing to take the blow when Pellinor punched him.

Arthur chuckled. "I wouldn't --"

"Sheriff! Sheriff!" The stable boy came running, coming to a skidding stop in front of Hank. The horse tossed its head and snorted. Petey tried to talk, but all that came out was a jumble of strangled syllables; he bowed over one second later, panting for breath, holding up a finger. 

Arthur waited patiently, but he had a strange, sinking feeling in his belly.

"It's the stagecoach! They said... The driver, he said there's big smoke... out by the Emersons --" Arthur didn't hear the rest of what Petey had to say. He turned Hank around, and pushed the horse to a ground-eating gallop. The horse should be tired -- Hell, _Arthur_ was tired, it had been a long day of dealing with women when he would much rather have been elsewhere, _with Merlin_ \-- but Hank's strides were long and steady, smooth and desperate, as if he were sensing Arthur's fear and desperation.

And desperation it was, because the instant they crested the hill, Arthur could see the large cloud of billowing grey smoke filling the darkening sky, smearing the clear navy blue and the sparkle of stars and the glimmer of sunset along the horizon with misery and dread. 

Arthur rode on, grim, only distantly aware of the hoofbeats behind him. The others would have followed him, without a doubt -- they had a job to do, and that job was to find any and every sign of the bandits that were plaguing Albion. Smoke in the sky meant an attack on a homestead, on a farm, on a wagon train, on a travelling stagecoach carrying passengers out their way. The sooner they were on the bandit's trail, the better --

Arthur should be making plans. He should be ordering the others to fan out, to anticipate the fake trails that the bandits would be laying for them. By now, they had a good idea of how the bandits operated -- they would ride out together in a group with their goods in tow, pausing an hour's ride away for long enough to make a crude split of their gains, and they would split, spreading out in every cardinal direction except the one where they'd just come --

But Arthur couldn't think. He couldn't. 

_Merlin_.

Leon gave the orders that Arthur should have given. The men scattered, but Leon chased after Arthur, either to cover him from any bandits they found at the Emerson homestead, or to brace him against whatever they would find there.

Arthur hoped that it wouldn't be the latter.

His horse was too slow. The Emerson land was too far. It was too dark, and the smoke made it difficult to see.

In the deepening night, the homestead was a flickering flame, crackling and burning.

Hank's stride suddenly lengthened, as if the horse recognized his home, and for an instant, Arthur lost sight of the fire when they dipped beneath a grove. Arthur felt his horse gathering himself, preparing for a leap, and they were over the rise and that much closer to the heat that blasted like a furnace, growing hotter with every step.

There was no sign of the bandits. 

The barn doors were wide open, the stable doors torn asunder, the corral gate swinging in the wind. The house was aflame, the roof collapsed, scarce left but the solid rafters and the outer walls.

And Merlin --

 _Merlin_.

He was kneeling, his body slumped, his head down, his arms listless in his lap. His shirt was torn and bloody, there was a long gash down his trousers and a dirty scrape down his side.

There was a noose around his throat, the skin red and worn, the rope hanging down his back. The other end swung from a tree branch, and Arthur's chest tightened with unspeakable rage that Merlin had been _hung_ like a common criminal.

Arthur scrambled from horseback, stumbling on weak legs, falling on his knees in front of Merlin. Merlin's breath was heavy and laboured one instant, struggling with a great weight on his chest, and in the other, it was shallow and sharp, coming in panicky pants.

Arthur yanked off his gloves. He touched Merlin's cheek. It was damp with tears.

Merlin raised his head, but he didn't _see_ Arthur. He stared at the house, his eyes reflecting the flames, tear tracks running down his face and washing away the soot on his skin.

Arthur didn't have to ask. Mrs. Emerson had been inside.

"Oh, God, Merlin," Arthur whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Maybe it was the sound of his name or the sound of Arthur's voice. Arthur would never know for sure. All that he knew was that he never wanted to hear Merlin's broken whimper ever again.

Arthur pulled at Merlin. Merlin resisted one instant and succumbed the next, falling into Arthur's arms, and sobbed.

 

* * *

 

Hunith Emerson was buried deep in the homestead, on a grassy rise beneath a willow tree. The sky was a crisp, clear blue, the leaves starting to darken from the encroaching Fall, and the tiny swallows in the tree sang in soft, mute sorrow.

Long after the preacher said his last few words, slapped his black bible shut and led the mourners away, Arthur moved to stand next to Merlin, his hat in his hand. Neither of them spoke. Fact of the matter was, Arthur couldn't remember when was the last time that Merlin had spoken at all.

"Come back to town with me," Arthur said, and right away, he knew the words weren't right, however they had sounded in his head for the last few days. His tone was off, rougher than he'd meant, hinting at how much he cared about Merlin and not showing it enough.

Merlin hadn't left the homestead once since the attack. He had refused when Arthur had first invited him, sleeping in the barn and picking through the still-steaming skeleton of the house for anything salvageable.

There were those in town who whispered, _that poor Emerson boy_ and _like a ghost he is, completely lost_ , but Arthur wouldn't have of any of it because of how deep those words cut. Every spare moment that he had, when he wasn't chasing fake trails, was spent in Merlin's company, silent though it was.

"I have room," Arthur added. When minutes passed without an answer, Arthur said, "It wouldn't be any trouble."

Merlin's head was bowed, his eyes fixed to the ground. There was a mound where the body was buried but no headstone; there was a twine-knot garland of green branches and leaves and wildflowers on the ground, leaning against the willow tree.

"I don't feel right leaving you alone. Not now, not like this," Arthur said.

Merlin's weight shifted and Arthur was relieved to have some reaction out of Merlin, even if it was only to lean lightly against him.

Merlin didn't speak. He didn't move. In the end, Arthur stayed until the sun went down, seeing Merlin to the barn, before he rode back to town.

 

* * *

 

Arthur spent weeks chasing after the most ephemeral of clues, pushing his men and pushing himself until they were saddle-sore, and complaining that they wished they'd never gotten telegrams inviting them to Albion in the first place.

Weeks, and the closest they'd come to the bandits was a campfire that was still warm and tracks that led into a mountainous maze of gullies and hills that could kill a man as sure as a bullet. Rock fall or an unsteady stumble over an edge was the quickest way to die, and getting lost was the slowest, because a man could die equally from heatstroke or ice fever as starvation and thirst. All it took in any case was making the wrong turn.

But the men had had enough, and so had Arthur; chasing false leads wasn't getting them any closer to the bandits who had been attacking Albion and the families who lived all around it at a steadily increasing rate.

He sent the deputies to town and detoured out Merlin's way while the sun was still high in the sky.

The burnt-out husk of the house had been torn down, with nearly nothing left but the floor and the woodstove. Some of the floorboards had been replaced and the framing on one side was up, but the progress -- that there was _any_ progress at all -- wasn't the only surprise.

There were horses in a corral that had been completely emptied more than a month ago. It was a strange sight, but a welcome one.

And there was Merlin, his hat tilted back, a couple of nails in his mouth, a hammer in his hand. Despite the chill in the air, sweat had dampened his brow and plastered his hair onto his forehead and the nape of his neck where his hat wasn't covering his head. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and Arthur was so fascinated by the strong forearms and slim wrists that he didn't immediately notice when Merlin finished hammering and had turned around to look at him, leaning forward on crossed arms on the newest wall.

Merlin hadn't smiled since before his mother died, but he was smiling now. Arthur nearly fell out of the saddle from its strength and beauty, not realizing how long he'd been aching to see Merlin smile again.

"Afternoon, Sheriff," Merlin said, touching the lip of his hat with a finger. "What brings you out this way?"

"Same thing that always brings me out this way," Arthur said, not realizing what had come out of his mouth until he saw the flush on Merlin's cheeks. The smile widened. Arthur swallowed hard and searched for something to say. "I see you have new horses."

"Same ol' horses," Merlin said, the smile slipping into something sly right before he ducked his head down. "They came home."

"All on their own?" Arthur asked, sceptical. He dismounted and approached the house, glancing at the corral. There was easily two dozen horses there, nudging each other and eating the feed that had been put out for them. He blinked in surprise when he spotted Rem -- Alby -- among them.

"They know where they'll get proper feed and care," Merlin said.

"You mean, where they'll get spoilt rotten," Arthur said, smiling. He wasn't sure if he believed that the stolen horses had returned by themselves, but he'd seen stranger things happen before. It was a relief, however that this happened, because it seemed to have cheered Merlin up. "Does that mean Hank will come sulking here some day if he doesn't get his oats?"

"Sure will," Merlin said, grinning. He dropped his arms from the ledge and his smile faded a little. "Heard you were out huntin'. How'd it turn out?"

Arthur shook his head, wincing even as he said the words. "Still looking. Not having much luck, though."

Merlin dropped his head and nodded. "Yeah. Didn't think so."

He turned away and dropped his hammer on the rickety sawhorse table. He leaned forward, plucked the hat from his head, and ran his hand through his hair; it stuck up at all sorts of angles that Arthur wanted to smooth down.

"Do you need a hand?"

"Naw," Merlin said, straightening slowly. When he turned around again, it was to give Arthur a wobbly grin; his hands were shaking just a little bit. Arthur's heart ached. He wanted to hold onto those hands until they stopped trembling, until he could win himself a _real_ smile from Merlin. "I'm done for the day. Gotta head out, check on the shelters by the river for the cattle. Nights are gettin' colder."

Arthur had noticed how Merlin had thrown himself into work very shortly after his mother's murder. The bandits, not being rustlers hadn't touched the cattle -- too difficult to move, never mind round up and find, and Merlin had spent endless days and nights out on the land, rounding them up, counting heads, checking each and every one before letting them go again. For all that Arthur knew, Merlin had continued the habit while Arthur was gone, but if the progress on the house was any indication, he'd been keeping himself busy each and every day.

"You want company?" Arthur asked.

Merlin shook his head. "Naw. That's all right. Goin' the other way from you, I reckon. Besides, you've been out there for a while, probably could use a bath."

"I definitely could," Arthur said ruefully. He tried not to pay much attention to how he smelled, not after catching a good whiff of Lance downwind. He wasn't sure Gwen would be thanking him for asking Lance to come all the way out here if her husband was going to make a habit of coming home reeking as rotten as Arthur was smelling now.

"I'd offer mine, but, um." Merlin ducked his head down, but not before Arthur saw how the tips of his ears had turned bright red. Merlin hid them almost immediately by tugging his hat down low. "Not exactly private 'round here, isn't it?"

"No, but all the same, I wouldn't mind because it's you," Arthur said, but he glanced around long and slow before letting his eyes drift up and down Merlin's body, lingering at the curve of his throat, the slim bones of his wrists, the spot where his shirt showed the faintest hint of skin along the hip where his trousers slipped down.

Arthur frowned, wondering if Merlin had been eating. It didn't look like there was much by way of food.

It was only when Merlin startled and turned around that Arthur went over what he'd said. It was his turn to flush red, to feel the tips of his ears burning, an uncomfortable sensation in his belly fluttering faster from the way that Merlin was looking at him now. Arthur reeled in Hank and walked around to the saddle.

"But you're probably right. I should get going, find out what I've missed for the last while." He mounted, cursing under his breath for this fool state that he'd gotten himself in, mooning over someone who --

There was a warmth on his leg. Arthur looked down at Merlin's hand, gloved fingers curling around his knee. There was a long moment full of wistful looks, and Merlin licked his lips before dropping his eyes.

"You'll be back?" Merlin asked.

"I'll be back, Merlin," Arthur said, and he felt a pang deep down when Merlin drew his hand away.

But Merlin smiled big and bright, and he said, "I'll keep the bath warm for you. For next time."

They were words that Arthur couldn't get out of his head for the entire ride back to town.

 

****

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/jSuW92z)

 

Arthur was gone a few weeks, chasing after bandits, and the amount of frustration came to a head when he dropped by the Emerson farm and found more horses in the corral, but no Merlin. He headed for town, feeling particularly despondent, and it didn't help one bit when his deputies told him, "You missed all the excitement."

"I'm not liking that word much these days," Arthur said, swatting his dusty hat on his thigh. He tugged off a glove and wiped his face with his hand, trying to rub in some wakefulness. The trail coffee had gone tasteless days ago, and no amount of boiling the beans had made it stronger.

He half-wished he'd stayed at Merlin's. He could have hauled water from the pump, had a private bath in the barn, maybe scavenged around to see if there was some food about, cooked up some beans and potatoes. Maybe, then, Merlin would've come back, and --

Arthur snapped himself out of it.

"Some of them bandits came into town," Leon said, sucking air through his teeth. "We were out on patrol at the time or we would've seen 'em ride in, but I'm thinkin' they were waitin' for most of us to be out --"

"Who was on duty?"

"Reynolds," Pellinor said.

"Cedric, too, if I'm remembering rightly," Leon said.

"What happened?" Arthur glanced upward longingly; his bed, however lumpy, was there, and at this point, he'd happily take a cold bath behind the barn if it meant scraping off at least one layer of grime from his skin.

"Well, that's the thing," Pellinor said. "They're dead."

All thoughts of a bath -- particularly a bath where Merlin was in the vicinity, maybe even scrubbing his back -- vanished.

 

* * *

 

"They rode in big as life, is what I heard," Pellinor said, walking with Arthur toward the Saloon. They'd just come from the undertaker to take a look at the bodies, and truth to tell, three of the four bandits didn't look like much. The fourth man was larger than life even in death, broad-shouldered and big-headed, with a scruffy beard that was gnarled up and braided on either side of his chin. He hadn't needed Pellinor to identify them; he'd stared at their Wanted posters plenty of times.

The big man was Kanen, and there was not only a federal warrant for his arrest, there was a substantial reward that no one was stepping forward to claim. While Kanen had come to the law's notice by way of a successful railroad robbery, Kanen had made more profit robbing homesteads across four states.

He wouldn't be robbing them anymore. 

The other three men were hanger-ons, well-known members of Kanen's ever-growing band. More and more want posters came in all the time with awful sketches of new cattle rustlers and stagecoach robbers, but these men in particular had been with Kanen's band for a long time.

"Shot off their guns, too," Pellinor was saying, and Arthur excused himself as he walked around a couple chatting on the boardwalk. "Herded everyone off the streets, leastways those who weren't smart enough to get out of there soon as they rode in."

Arthur nodded, encouraging Pellinor to continue. The story was second-hand, but he'd hear what had happened from the barkeep soon enough.

"Harassed some of the gents, made 'way with the till at the General Store, barged into the Saloon and tossed out near everyone. Grabbed some of the girls, but they don't take to rough handlin' and headed on up soon as they could. Took over Gwaine's usual table -- man was right mad about that, said now he'd have to have a medicine man in or somethin' to have the area cleansed of bad luck -- and started on…" Pellinor trailed off with a shrug. "Well, I'll let you get the story from Eddie, he was there through the whole thing."

The swinging doors to the Saloon opened and clacked shut, and the entire room stilled for a moment. The piano player's hands splayed in the air without touching the keys; the nonstop chatter had been cut off in mid-word. The only sound was the faint shuffling of playing cards, which paused when Gwaine lowered them long enough to give Arthur a mocking salute before resuming as if there hadn't been an interruption.

Arthur supposed that he couldn't blame the patrons for their startle reflex; he didn't think he looked any better than a no-good bandit, not with him dragging in the whole of the country behind him in a dust cloud, the lip of his hat curled down from the weight of it, the jangle of his spurs barely ringing as he walked. Even his Sheriff's star was tarnished; he could have given it a cursory polish before walking in.

Enough people recognized him -- or, failing that, they recognized Pellinor -- and relaxed, returning to their drinking and conversing and card playing. Arthur went to the bar and crooked a couple of fingers to gesture the barkeep over.

Eddie was a short, squat man with a round belly tucked behind a black apron, and for all that he spent most of his time polishing glasses behind the bar, he knew the town's business better than the town itself. His hair was balding and there was a nice purple shiner around his eye, a scrape along his jaw.

"Eddie, why don't you tell the Sheriff what happened with Kanen's gang, same as you told me?" Pellinor asked, one boot hooking on the foot rest of a nearby stool as he leaned against the bar, elbows down and arms crossed.

The barkeep glanced from side to side, his eyes narrowing slightly when they fell upon a group of men that Arthur didn't recognize either. He sized them up but they didn't look like bandits, not with fine suits and hats and boots that didn't look like they'd seen the outside of a stagecoach in a while, and he figured that they'd only just arrived in town. Still, Eddie didn't like the looks of them, because he gestured for Arthur and Pellinor to join him at a quieter corner of the bar.

"Well, Kanen and his boys came into the Saloon, but you knew that part already. Puffed out their chest, acted like they owned the place, and this bunch of cowards ran out and left me alone with them while I got shook down for protection money --" Eddie snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Protection money from what? Them?" Arthur asked, nearly as amused as Eddie, though he was taking it seriously. He'd seen gangs in the South banding up together to run the same sort of racket until all they needed to do was act threatening every now and then; they raked in the cash with little effort on their part.

"Said that you wouldn't be 'round long, that they'd take care of you, that without a Sheriff…" Eddie trailed off, apologetic. 

Arthur waved him off. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd gotten that sort of threat, and it wouldn't be the last; he expected to get himself a nice collection of warnings from every walk of life by the time he completed his first year as Sheriff. "Go on."

"Took everythin' from the till. Said it was down payment on all the fees I already owed them, plus interest. Helped themselves to three cases of my best Kentucky Red-Eye, made themselves comfortable in the corner and waved their guns at me anytime I tried to inch out of there. 

"They were making a right mess of my place. Tossed tables over, broke my glasses, damaged the piano --" The same piano that was playing just fine right now, so Arthur assumed it had been damaged for the better. "Went on jawin' about the latest ranchers they'd robbed. Couldn't have been two hours, I swear it felt like an eternity, it did, and that's when…" Eddie swallowed, suddenly nervous. He cast a glance around the saloon again. "That's when he showed up."

"Who?" Arthur traded a glance with Pellinor. Pellinor's eyebrows rose, and he spread his hands and nodded. _Just you wait, the story's getting good_ , he seemed to say.

"I don't know. Burst through the doors with both irons drawn. He wore a mask, I couldn't see his face, I swear! Even if he weren't all covered up, I couldn't take my eyes off those guns.

"He shot three of them dead before they could even clear their holsters. Never seen anyone shoot from the hip like that. He didn't even aim. 

"Kanen got wise real fast, tossed the table over and hid behind it like the coward he was, and the next thing I know, the masked man runs over, firin' at Kanen, keepin' him pinned down. He must've kicked the table 'cause it went flyin' clear across the room, and he's pouncin' on Kanen like a wild man.

"They talked. I couldn't hear them. They fought, too, but Kanen were flat on his back. The masked man, he -- he wrung Kanen's neck, and he kept sayin' something the whole time. Don't know what he said, I wasn't goin' to get closer to get an earful, but then it was all over and --"

Eddie's face paled. His whole body sunk, and he was visibly shaken by the memory. "Oh, God. He looked at me. His eyes -- they were like the Devil's own!"

Eddie poured himself generous shot and downed it in one gulp before sliding two extra shot glasses onto the counter and filling them up, too. Arthur didn't touch his.

"I told him, _I swears, I didn't see nothin'. I'd never tell anyway. Have mercy --_ I prayed to the Almighty, begged him not to kill me. I'm not ashamed to admit I was a-scared. You'd be, too, to see them burnin' eyes. I done covered up my head with my arms, swore to God I'd atone for whatever I'd ever done wrong --"

Eddie gulped. He shook his head. "I don't know how long I was like that, cowerin' and sobbin' like a babe, but it dawned on me I was still alive and I couldn't hear a cricket chirp. When I dared look, there was a money purse on the bar. Was enough coin to cover the damages Kanen and his men did to my bar and the cost of my good whiskey. Weren't no signs of that masked man, though. It was like he'd never been there."

"Except for the bodies," Pellinor said.

"Yeah, except for those," Eddie said, his tone rueful, distant. "Can't say when I've last seen shootin' like that. Three men down, barely in the blink of an eye?"

Arthur exchanged glances with Pellinor, exhaling a heavy breath. He picked up the whiskey shot and drank it down, needing it to steady his nerves.

If he didn't have enough on his plate dealing with bandits attacking the homestead, he had to deal with the bandits coming into town as if they owned the place. And to make matters worse, there was a vigilante that he needed to hunt down.

 

****

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/jSuW92z)

 

It was starting to become a pattern. 

At any other time, Arthur would enjoy the advantage that an enemy's pattern gave him. Patterns required regularity, the comfort of routines and habits. Patterns made it easier for him to track down his target, to position himself at an ideal location, and for him to take them out from a distance and evade before anyone found him.

The pattern in this case was frustrating. He would get wind of an attack on a homestead, rustle up his men, and arrive just as it was over -- in time to clean up the mess that the masked man left behind.

Unlike with Kanen and the gang at the Saloon, the masked man had taken to disabling and tying up the bandits instead of killing them outright, which made Arthur think that the stranger didn't have much stomach for killing. On one occasion, he'd even fashioned a droopy _bow_ with the rope, as if it were a gift, but by that point, Arthur and his men were tired and irritated of arriving too late, of having their thunder stolen, so to speak.

"Well, he's doin' us a favour," Geraint -- one of Leon's friends and a newly-minted deputy -- said.

"A favour?" Arthur asked, shooting Geraint a dark sidelong look. The younger man withered, shrugging his shoulders. "You call this a favour? He's a vigilante. He's operating outside the law. He could get innocent people hurt."

"Seems to be doing all right so far," Pellinor muttered under his breath. Arthur gave him the same dark look he'd given Geraint, but Pellinor, used to it by now, only raised his hands from the saddle horn in apology. 

The forest of Wanted posters on the bulletin board at the Jail was being systematically cut down until Arthur could see the original board on the wall. Although no one had come forward to claim credit for capturing the bandits, there was still a reward involved, and because Arthur shuffled his prisoners to the secure wagon train for transport to a larger jail in a town where they would be tried and sentenced, the department was the _de facto_ recipient of the awards. He kept a small cut to fortify the jail and to pay the salary of the older deputies who were taking early retirement, now that they didn't have to work so hard, and the remainder had been split up between different households who had been attacked.

Still, the reward was a pittance when compared to the money that had been left on the doorsteps of the affected families. Apparently, the masked man had been coming by, returning both items that had been stolen and a measure of cash from whatever had been taken and sold.

"If he were a bounty hunter, it'd be different," Leon said. "He'd be operatin' within the law --"

Percival snorted. "Right. I've met my share of bounty hunters, I can't say that all of 'em do --"

"At least he's bein' altruistic -- that's the word, ain't it? Altruistic?" Geraint asked.

No one answered, so Arthur grit his teeth and said, "Yeah, it's the word."

"He's returnin' whatever he finds, doesn't claim any credit --" Geraint shrugged again. "Altruistic, I say. So that's why I don't get why we're huntin' _him_."

The masked man had shown up so often that not only was Arthur able to get a description from the bandits, he was able to get corroborating information from the families at the farms that the masked man visited. Tall, broad-shouldered, slim build. His hair was tucked under a hat but most people agreed was a brown so dark it was almost black, and _everyone_ agreed that the man's eyes were like a demon's from Hell, burning a yellow-gold. But beyond that, no one could say who it was; his features were always hidden behind a red handkerchief.

It could be anyone in town. Or it could be a newcomer, but that was doubtful; Arthur's inquiries to the nearby towns, just as plagued and beleaguered with their own problems, hadn't turned up a benevolent masked vigilante. Whoever this man was, he was native to the area and knew it well enough to shake off anyone pursuing him -- from either side of the law.

Arthur might not be able to identify the man, but the man's horse was a different matter. There couldn't be that many grey horses out there with tortoiseshell-and-brindle patterns. From the hoof prints, it was a big, unshod horse, probably one out to pasture and rarely ridden, but _surely_ someone had seen it, and knew to whom it belonged.

"Would it be so bad to let 'im go?" Geraint asked. "I mean, it ain't like he's doin' anything bad --"

"Puttin' aside someone gettin' hurt in a shoot-out because them bandits want him taken out before he takes out more of them, how long do you think it'll be before the bandits decide to go all-in and siege the town until they give him up? How long before we all end up dead in some sort of blood feud that takes half the town with it?" Leon asked, leaning forward in the saddle to look at Geraint.

"Shouldn't matter none," Pellinor said. "At this rate, he'll take out all the bandits we've got left, and we'll be spendin' more time with a purty woman in our laps instead of our asses gettin' all saddle-sore."

"I'll show you saddle-sore," Geraint muttered, shifting in his seat. He'd come to Albion after a long train ride to the nearest town with a station, and he'd taken a stagecoach the rest of the way. His horse wasn't half as fine as Arthur's -- but then again, none of the deputies' horses were half as fine as Hank -- and the saddle was a poor fit. He was sure that Merlin might have some spares to loan Geraint until Geraint had enough to buy himself his own tack, but that would have to wait until they tracked down the masked man.

"Even then, what'll happen if word gets out?" Leon asked, and Arthur stayed quiet, letting him handle the conversation. When it came to playing the devil's advocate, Leon was better than he was. "It's a slap in the face to all the bandits out there, every criminal who's ever worn a mask. Give them a bad name, or somethin' -- but whatever it is, they'll hear how Albion got near cleared out by some no-name without a badge, and they'll see it as a challenge. Won't take them long before they all come ridin' in, an army of men who don't care who they kill, just so they have the privilege of sayin' they're the ones that took down Albion's Guardian Angel."

Arthur winced. _That_ was the name that some of the townspeople had taken to calling the masked man, Arthur had heard how the good Pastor had ranted and raved about that from his pulpit last Sunday morning. He would've heard the bible-thumping himself, but he wasn't a Church-going man, and Lance had given him the blow-by-blow all the same. "Frankly, I'm thinkin' he's more of a modern-day Robin Hood," Lance had said, and Arthur had hushed him up least someone overhear him and turn the masked man into even more of a hero than he already was.

"I guess," Geraint said, but he didn't seem convinced. 

"Hold it," Percival said, sitting back, the shift in weight making his horse come to a complete stop. One by one, they all came to a stop and listened. "That sound like gunshot to you?"

Arthur heard it then, a rapid-fire slow-burst staccato. He glanced around the open plain and followed the distant hills until he traced the source of the sound. He reeled Hank around and shouted, "This way!"

They made it to the main road in an earthquake-rending gallop, the horses straining at their top speed. Hank pulled away easily, Leon's horse on his heels, the rest of the deputies trailing behind first in single file before fanning out. Up ahead was the stagecoach, six black liveried horses racing toward them, trying their damnedest to stay ahead of the robbers. The look-outs on the top of the carriage were returning fire; one of them took a bullet and went tumbling down. A bandit strained for the driver's reins while another one tried to climb on board.

Peeling out of nowhere in a giant dust cloud was a big tortoiseshell-brindle grey horse, its long strides making Hank's look like he were meandering out at a slow canter. There was a man riding low at the horse's neck, his long slicker flapping, the wide brim of his hat folded backward from the force of the wind. There was no missing the flash of red over his face.

There he was.

The man they were after. The man _Arthur_ was after.

He had guns in both hands, and he was a sure enough shot that he picked off a bandit struggling with one of the stagecoach guards; the bandit jerked back, wounded, and slipped and fell to the ground, nearly crushed by the wheels. Arthur wasn't sure how the man was guiding his horse, because the horse stopped on a penny and turned on a hoof to reverse directions without instruction from his rider. The man shot again and the bandit who'd climbed astride the lead horses was hit, a shoulder wound, and slipped, falling between the horses. His weight tangled with the reins and forced the stagecoach from an all-out gallop to a slow, staggering walk.

That was bad in so many ways. Arthur and his men weren't close enough to even _scare_ the robbers -- their goal was obviously the chest chained down on the roof, and if they were quick, they'd have gotten it and be well on their way by the time they were in range.

The masked man holstered his gun and unwound a lasso -- 

"What the _tarnation_ \--?" Percival shouted, as dumbstruck as Arthur, and with good reason. The masked man was surrounded by a good dozen bandits, most of them milling around the back, the rest climbing the top of the coach to get to the lockbox. He could be shot at any moment --

Instead, he caught himself a tangled robber and dragged him away from the horses, and the stage's driver, half-fighting with a bandit trying to throttle him from above, cracked the whip and the coach got going again. The five bandits on the roof toppled back and three of them fell off completely.

A stagecoach's greatest defence was that once it got moving, it got _moving_ , and a good pulling team, no matter what the load, could still run faster than a single man on horseback. Despite guards on the roof and a solid supply of ammunition, a stagecoach was both a moving fortress and a tempting target for hijackers and robbers. It dawned on Arthur what the masked man was doing -- he was getting the stage up to speed again. It would take another unfortunate accident or a damned skilled driver to slow the horses down.

And right now, the stage was that much closer to Arthur and his deputies.

Somehow, the masked man recovered his rope. Somehow, he'd drawn a gun and shot a bandit coming at him. Somehow, he'd managed to stay on horseback, though now he was barely hanging on.

Arthur saw the robber taking aim on the masked man and pulled out his rifle.

It was going to be a hard shot. Nearly from the hip. No accounting for wind variances. On horseback, though admittedly, Hank was the steadiest horse he'd ever ridden. There would be no gauging distances, there would be no steady measure or calculation, there would be no adjusting and readjusting his sight.

Arthur picked his shot and fired.

The bandit about to blow a hole through the masked man's head fell off his horse and wasn't any further trouble. The masked man swung his body up and caught the saddlehorn, wrenched his boot free from the tangle of stirrup, and touched feet-on-ground, using his horse's momentum to throw himself back in the saddle. It was a smooth, _smooth_ movement, and Arthur had seen that kind of move before in the travelling shows, with trick riders who could do unfathomable things on their horses. 

He caught Leon's inquiring look -- _did you miss?_ \-- and ignored it. Of course he hadn't missed.

He meant to catch the vigilante alive, if for no other reason than to make an example of him. The law was there for a reason, and there would be hell to pay if anyone operated outside of it, even if the vigilante in question was doing whatever he could to stop the bandits, keep people safe, and return what had been stolen from them.

It had nothing to do with being shown up by some no-good --

Arthur cut himself off in mid-thought and barked, "Take them down! Percival, flank _left_ \--"

The line of deputies split in half to let the stagecoach continue on unhindered. The robbers still on horseback figured out that they were outnumbered and outgunned and thought better of getting into a gunfight. They wheeled around and ran, kicking at their horses and whipping them with the reins, anything to spur speed into animals that looked as if they'd already run themselves out.

Percival and Pellinor doubled back to stay on the stagecoach and take care of the two remaining bandits, both of whom emptied their six-shooters and missed their targets on every bullet. Leon and Geraint and the other deputies scattered after the rest, chasing them down.

And the masked man, sweet as you please, brought his tortoiseshell-brindle-grey horse to a dainty stop and surveyed the situation as if he had _orchestrated_ the whole thing so that the deputies could legitimately claim a capture. He touched the brim of his hat in salute, and his horse reared, front legs kicking the air, before landing lightly, turning in a slow circle, and galloping off.

"Oh, Hell, no," Arthur snarled. He caught Leon's attention. "You stay on after the robbers. I'm going after _him_."

 

* * *

 

Seemed like no matter what he did, he couldn't close the distance between them. Hank gave his best, he truly did, but when it came to clambering after the son-of-a-gun through the rocky ravines, Arthur wasn't going to risk it.

For one thing, Merlin would kill him if Hank broke a leg. For another, he was sure that that odd-coloured horse was half mountain goat, the way it took to climbing up the pitch like it was a nuisance rather than an impossibly steep incline. 

Arthur smacked his fist on his thigh. "God _damn_ it."

He sat back on Hank, scanning the area, going in circles in search of a way in, some sort of a trail or a path that would get him closer, where he could intercept the masked man and demand his surrender. He didn't find any.

Time was wasting. The longer he spent looking, the further away the masked man would get, and he'd be out of Arthur's grasp. Arthur couldn't allow that, not when he suspected that this was a one-off, that the masked man would be more careful, biding his time to make sure that the Sheriff and his deputies weren't already around the corner, ready to save the day and capture him, too. Arthur thought about setting up an ambush, but he didn't think it would work, not when the masked man was smart enough to lose everyone hot on his heels and had the better horse, besides.

Still, an ambush might be the only way to get close enough again.

"The _Hell_ with this," Arthur said, dismounting. He left Hank loose -- if he didn't make it back, he was sure that Hank would find his way to town, or, failing that, to Merlin's farm. He took his rifle out of the saddle holster, made sure it was stocked with fresh ammunition, and continued on foot. Arthur didn't care how steady the other man's horse was in the rocks, there was no way anyone would ride at a speed faster than a slow walk, not in the rocky canyon. Arthur should be able to catch up easily, as long as he didn't lose trail or sight of them.

He was rewarded some time later with the sight of the tortoiseshell-brindle grey wandering off on its own down a narrow trail that he didn't think even mountain goats would try. The horse didn't look spooked; it seemed like an everyday occurrence, that maybe this was the point where the horse could only go so far and couldn't go any further. Still, Arthur took more care from this point on, because the masked man could be anywhere.

He slipped through a narrow wedge between two rose-coloured rocks twice again his height, crept down a wind-smooth plane of rock that was as slippery as it looked, and climbed up a rise onto a ledge less than a foot wide. He had the high position, now, and he used it to his advantage, skimming the lay of the land in search of anything that was out of place.

A flash caught his eye.

A shadow.

The crumble of gravel under a boot.

 _There_.

He put his rifle against his shoulder. He adjusted the sight, estimated the distance. In the canyon, he was protected against most of the wind, but there were eddies swirling in the gullies and those could be worse than being in open air.

Arthur took his time. He followed the shadow as it wove through the maze of rocks and waited for the masked bandit to appear.

It didn't take long -- the man walked through the gully with only the slightest bit of caution. His hat was tugged low on his head, his handkerchief pulled down from his face to rest around his throat. Every now and then, he would glance over his shoulder as if expecting someone to appear behind him -- he really had no idea of tactics, Arthur realized, but if he lost him now, that was it. There would be no finding him.

He exhaled slowly, and in the instant between one heartbeat and the next, squeezed the trigger.

The vigilante's torso whipped back and a soft cry echoed against stone. Arthur stood up, ready to descend in a hurry -- he hadn't shot to kill, only disable, and considering their location, he'd opted for a shoulder rather than a leg, wanting nothing to do with carrying the man out of the canyon when he wasn't sure he'd be able to find his own way out -- when the man looked up.

Distracted, Arthur tried to make out the man's face from under the shadows of his hat, and his foot slipped on loose gravel. He careened for balance but fell the whole way, the rock too slippery to get a good handhold, and he came to a tumbling stop at the bottom. His breath knocked out of him, there was a sharp pain up his leg, and he saw stars.

A sharp whistle cut through the dull fog that was his head, but the sound came all from around him and there was no way to tell where it had come from. Dazed, Arthur shook his head to clear it and took stock of all his body parts. Nothing broken, but his knee didn't like his weight and it twinged when he crawled over to where his rifle had fallen. The gun was in better shape than he was, with a few extra dings in the stock, and the distance sight was ruined -- he'd need another one -- but it was still serviceable.

A distant huff caught his attention. The light clip of unshod hooves over unsteady ground. A soft, querying neigh.

" _Shit_ ," Arthur breathed. He climbed out of the gully and half-ran, half-limped through the twists and turns that he'd memorized while he had a bird's eye view, heading where he'd seen the masked man go down.

He wasn't there, but the bloodstain on the rock where the bullet had gone through-and-through was sign enough that Arthur had hit his target the way he'd intended. The dirt was disturbed where the man had collapsed, rolling onto his back. He'd managed to creep onto his feet, pressing a dirty glove on the rock wall; the fingerprints pointed him in the direction he needed to go. A breadcrumb trail of bloody fingerprints, the splatters all of varying sizes but growing smaller the further out that the man managed to get, led Arthur after his prey.

There was a rough, bloody climb up a ledge. A spot on the stone where the man must have leaned against to catch his breath. An increasingly distressed neigh and stumbling footfalls not that far away.

Arthur rounded the bend in time to see the masked bandit climbing into the saddle of the tortoiseshell-brindle grey. He raised his rifle.

"Halt!"

The horse charged him. It was only two steps, maybe three, but so sudden and thunderous that Arthur got out of the way in a hurry, bracing himself against the rock. The horse couldn't possibly fit through; and it didn't. When Arthur looked, the horse had backed out of the narrow passageway, jumping to freedom, its rider bowed over the saddle.

"God _damn_ it!"

 

****

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/jSuW92z)

 

Leon had tracked him to the canyon, for which Arthur was profoundly grateful. His knee throbbed, and he hadn't been looking forward to the long walk back.

Hank wasn't where Arthur had left him, but Leon rustled up one of the bandits' horses -- a slightly-swaybacked bay mare with a preference for turning left instead of right -- for the ride to town. The stagecoach was escorted to Albion, the surviving bandits were hustled into a packed cell, and arrangements were made by telegram for a prison coach to come and get the latest load.

As pleased as Arthur was to have captured so many of the remaining members of Kanen's gang, watching the masked man slip through his fingers when he'd been so close was going to be a sore point with him for a long time. He wasn't used to seeing his target get away, and he was less used to it when the target in question was injured and without recourse for escape. He half-expected the masked man to show up in town to make use of the doctor-slash-barber's services and get stitched up, but Arthur knew he wouldn't be that lucky and the vigilante not that stupid.

One thing was for sure, though. He missed Hank. The slightly-swaybacked bay mare was all right to ride but she made his hip twitch something painful, and the other horses at the stables were a shade below par when compared to any of the horses from the Emerson's farm. It had been a couple of days since the stagecoach attack and Arthur figured that by now, Hank would've made way for his beloved pastures.

Arthur was riding past the Saloon on a borrowed blaze gelding when Gwaine flagged him down; Arthur stopped and tipped his hat back, squinting against the sun. 

"You know what they say about Sheriffs keen to round up all the bad guys," Gwaine said.

"That it means you're less likely to spend the night sleeping off your drink and overstaying your welcome in my fine establishment?"

Gwaine had a rejoinder handy, but he paused to consider Arthur's answer, and spread his face as if that was a perfectly acceptable response and one that he would happily accept. "There's that, yeah. You know your merry band's got them bandits runnin' scared. They won't pop out of their prairie holes anytime soon."

"Your point?" Arthur asked, resting his hands on the saddle horn. The gelding started to list; Arthur corrected him with a snap of his reins and sincerely missed having Hank.

"I see you lost Merlin's favourite horse."

"I didn't _lose_ him," Arthur snapped. Gwaine smirked and dug around in his pockets until he found his watch and checked the time. Knowing him, he was probably making sure he wasn't late for an illicit appointment with one of the married ladies in town, or that he was missing out on a poker game.

"But he's about, I suppose?" Gwaine asked, raising a mocking brow. Before Arthur could retort, Gwaine said, "You'd best find him before our Merlin sees how careless you are. By the by, I hear tell you shot our mysterious benefactor."

Arthur grimaced and wondered which one of his deputies had a big mouth. He'd specifically ordered that no one be told, lest the townspeople get it in their heads of sheltering Albion's so-called guardian angel. Anyone would do it, too -- anyone, that was, except the Pastor, who was still Hell bent on preaching against unions with the Devil. "I did."

"And you're goin' lookin' for him?" Gwaine asked, his brows pinched in faint disapproval. It shouldn't surprise Arthur that Gwaine would side with the masked man -- he was an idealist himself, believing it his God-given right to swindle other people from their money as penance for whatever sins they'd performed in the past.

"Shouldn't I?"

Arthur must have sounded a little too defensive, because Gwaine held up his hands. "I'm just sayin', Sheriff."

"You're not speaking plain enough. What are you getting at?"

"That maybe you're wantin' to think this through a bit. People 'round these parts like you well enough. Respect you, even, and respect's a coin that's worth more than gold. But when it comes to someone who's done for the town what our masked man has been doin', gettin' rid of the vermin --"

Gwaine trailed off, lifting his chin as if he expected Arthur to follow his line of reasoning, but Arthur glowered and said nothing. Gwaine rolled his eyes. He took a step closer and a step down, taking hold of the reins as if he expected Arthur to run off before he'd had his say.

"Folks here, they don't got much learnin'. Don't need a whole lot of it, neither. And the law's the law, they know that. But there's somethin' else they know, and that's when you live this far out in the middle of nowhere with civilization left behind in the East in some glitterin' city that might as well be Paris for all that any of us are gonna see it? There's another law, Frontier law, and it's a law that trumps yours, and it don't matter if a damn courthouse or you says otherwise."

"I like you, Sheriff. You're a good man. You know how to look away on the little things. Look away on this one. You don't want to be known as the Sheriff that took down the man who protected us when you couldn't, and that's no fault on you, no, sir, because everyone knows you can't work outside the law. That shiny star you wear ties your damn hands."

Arthur clenched his jaw and gave Gwaine a steely look as he could manage. "You done?"

A sour expression settled on Gwaine and he glanced away, shaking his head as if he were disappointed, but he let go of the reins. "I'm done."

Arthur didn't move off right away. He was trying not to think about _Frontier law_ and how, when it came down to it, his anger was directed by the very same constraints of the law he was supposed to uphold. It chaffed at him, that he couldn't have done what he would have done back when he was in the army, which was head off on his own with nothing but his horse and his rifle, and he'd hunt the enemy, taking them out at will.

No different than what the vigilante had been doing all this time.

It was jealousy that drove him at this point, and it was hard for him to admit to it. He was envious of a man who could do what he couldn't, that he'd done once upon a time.

"Gwaine," Arthur said, and there was a creak of floorboard as Gwaine stopped retreating to the Saloon and turned around.

"Sheriff?"

"You've been around these parts for a long time. Stands to reason that you'd know everything about everyone."

"Stands to reason," Gwaine agreed, his tone cautious.

"So you'd be the one to ask if I were wondering about trick riders and fast draws," Arthur said.

Confusion was quickly replaced by amusement and curiosity, but it was all wiped away in an eyebink, replaced by startle and understanding. Gwaine might play the fool even on the best of days, but he was as smart as sin when he wanted to be, counting cards and evening odds and puzzling out the answers to questions that hadn't even been asked yet. Arthur saw the moment when Gwaine figured it out, when he suddenly _knew_ who the masked man was, but he also recognized that Gwaine wouldn't tell him, not now, not ever, even if Arthur threatened to lock him up in a cell until his bones had gone to dust.

Darkness filled Gwaine's eyes, and for the first time since Arthur had known him, the humour that was so prevalent in everything he did, that he never seemed to shake no matter what the situation -- the incident with the rancher and the rancher's wife and a shotgun came to mind -- it disappeared. Gwaine's easy manner hardened and his tone was the crash of a hammer on a blacksmith's anvil when he finally spoke. 

"Look away on this one, Sheriff," he repeated. "You won't forgive yourself if you don't."

 

* * *

 

Arthur spotted Hank outside the barn, still in his tack, and figured that the horse had either wandered to the Emerson homestead fairly recently, if Merlin hadn't spotted him and taken care of him by now, or that Merlin spent the night out in the field, and hadn't come home yet. The closer he came, the more he realized that something was wrong.

The horses in the corral were racing in a circle, and despite the wide-open expanse available to them, they stayed close to the fence -- and the fence was in danger of being pushed onto its side. Hank's black coat was lathered up white with froth, and he was pacing back and forth, back and forth, agitated and wild-eyed. Arthur's chest tightened, and when he dismounted, it was with his gun in hand, scanning the area warily, searching for anything out of place that was threatening enough to get the horses all worked up.

No bandits. No wolves. No storm.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, it's all right, it's me, Hank, it's all right --" Arthur caught the reins and pulled Hank to him. He patted his neck, spoke soothingly, and nearly as soon as he had the horse calmed down, Hank spooked again, pulling the reins clean out of his hand.

It made no sense.

Arthur left Hank alone for now and took a second look around, this time more evaluating than the first. There was some progress on the house -- two of the outer walls were up, sheltering the wood stove from the wind, and there was a small tarp overhead, stretched into a makeshift roof. There was no sign of a cot, though, and Arthur figured that Merlin was still sleeping in the barn.

And the barn --

It was a large building spread out over a large tract of land, close to the stables that Arthur knew had enough stalls for all of the horses in the Emerson farm if need be, with some to spare. Nothing looked out of place, nothing except for the barn door that was just a little ajar. He couldn't see Merlin leaving the door open, not even a little bit, especially if he wasn't around.

Arthur went over there. His gun was a comfortable weight in his hand. He pulled back the hammer and reached for the door, pulling it open slowly.

A loud snort put him on his guard, but Arthur remembered that this was a _barn_ , and animals made noise, too. 

"Merlin? Are you in here?"

A stomp and a creak didn't amount to much of an answer, so Arthur pulled the door open all the way.

A thunder-crack of hooves was the only warning he got before a huge grey horse raced toward him, skidding to a stop just inside the barn doors. It reared and kicked the air, and Arthur fell flat on his ass, scrambling back to avoid the horse's hooves.

The horse landed on all fours and scrambled after Arthur, its head down, teeth nipping at him; Arthur rolled to avoid getting trampled. He was on his feet just as the horse turned around in a wide, prancing canter, its head held high --

Shock ran through Arthur at the sight of the tortoiseshell-brindled grey, its face and chest a dark splotch while the rest of it was mottled a strange grey-green-brown like a reptile's skin. He had just enough time to figure out that the masked man was _here_ , hiding in Merlin's barn, and he hoped to God that Merlin was out in the field after all, somewhere safe and sound, and that he wasn't in any danger.

The damn horse _charged_ at him, chasing Arthur into the barn; he whipped the door shut behind him, tumbling back on his ass a second time at the clatter of hooves on the door, heavy enough to cause the latch to slip and the wooden bar to fall, locking him in.

"What the Hell --" Arthur cut himself off with a quick glance around. There wasn't much light in the barn, not with the doors closed, but an open window here and there gave him enough to see by.

There were boxes and bales of hay. There were tools hanging on hooks and leaning against the walls, a saddle on the edge of a stall, empty buckets and burlap bags of oats. Merlin's temporary cot was in the furthest corner of the barn.

A soft whinny drew his eyes to a pair of legs sticking out of that corner.

" _Merlin!_ " Arthur's heart stopped pounding and his legs started moving, and he forgot for an instant that he needed to keep an eye out for the masked man. The vigilante could be anywhere -- hidden in a stall, behind the mounds of hay, up in the rafters.

A yearling, all long-legged and velvety, thrust his head over the half-wall of Merlin's little room and huffed. The colt was as white as driven snow, his muzzle pink, his ears pricked up in awareness and twitching with concern. He huffed again and stamped a hoof, full of impatient _what's taking you so long?_

Arthur wondered where Merlin had been hiding this one, dimly remembering the colt he'd seen the very first night he'd come over, the very first night he'd met Merlin. He wondered if the Emersons had deliberately bred attitude into all of their hoses, because Hank had that foot-stamp and huffing snort and ear-flick, too.

Wary, Arthur crept closer, ever closer, rounding the corner with nervous anticipation and growing dread. 

The legs belonged to a body that was face-down and unmoving, dressed in a familiar slicker, and hat, the former stained dark at the shoulder and down the back where a bullet had shot clean through, the latter tilted askew and hiding the masked man's head. His chest rose and fell in slow, shallow shudders.

Arthur felt a rush of pride. Here was the vigilante. He'd shot him. He'd found him. He'd caught him.

He reached down and moved the hat from the man's head, and all that pride went out of him with a punch in his gut, horror sending him to his knees.

"Merlin," he whispered.

Merlin was the vigilante. Merlin was the masked man. Merlin --

Sweet, shy Merlin. _His_ Merlin.

"Oh, God. _What have I done?_ "

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until after Arthur took care of Merlin -- cutting him out of his slicker and his shirt, throwing away that damnable red handkerchief, cleaning and stitching up the wound -- that he went to take care of the horses. He had to keep busy, he _needed_ to keep busy, because it was better than dwelling on the inescapable fact that he had shot Merlin. That he'd nearly killed him.

The horses had settled down sometime during the hours that he was inside the barn, tending to Merlin. He took care of Hank, first, removing the wet tack and blanket and brushing him, walking and walking him until he had cooled down. The horses in the field seemed fine and a quick walk-through didn't catch anything out of the ordinary, but when it came to horses, only time would tell. He left the big grey horse for last, and wasn't sure if he should be amused or annoyed that the blasted thing _deigned_ to let Arthur tend to him.

The entire time, the white yearling dogged his heels, watching his every movement with curiosity, bumping and nudging Arthur toward the barn at every opportunity. The colt led Arthur to Merlin every time, huffing and whinnying and making enough of a racket that he thought that something had gone wrong, that he'd _lost_ Merlin for sure, but there was never any change.

His breathing was steadier, his colour better, but he still hadn't opened his eyes.

It was dark out, now. The horses had been fed. Hank was in the stall across the way, and the big grey horse had refused to be led into the barn, shaking out of his halter and jumping the fence like it was an _inconvenience_ , joining the others in the pasture. The nag he'd borrowed for the ride to the ranch was in another stall. The yearling wandered in and out of his own stall at will, occasionally slipping under the rope to join Hank or to creep into Merlin's makeshift room to lip and pull at the blankets.

Arthur had to chase him out more than once. It was ridiculous, but it made sense for Merlin to have a horse who was more like a dog, and a far sight smarter besides.

And finally, when it was quiet, when Arthur ran out of things to do, he sat down on the ground next to Merlin's raised cot. He cleaned and put away the silver-plated six-shooters with elaborate hand-carving, placing them in a lined box that was burned around the edges -- Merlin must have gotten them from the house, after the fire. They were old guns, a good thirty years or so, and while Arthur wouldn't have been surprised if they'd belonged to Mrs. Emerson, he suspected that they belonged to Merlin's father, the man no one ever spoke about.

The mystery wasn't much of a mystery. Arthur told himself that he should have known. Merlin had pulled away from him after the attack, had found excuses not to come around town as often as he used to. When Arthur came visiting after Kanen had been killed, Merlin had barely been able to make eye contact, had been in such a hurry to get away. 

And after that --

Arthur cursed under his breath. If he had been around more, like he'd wanted to be, he would've seen this happening, he would've stopped Merlin from making this _stupid_ mistake --

The cot creaked. Arthur turned around. His breath caught in his chest, a strangled combination of panic and anxiety and hope.

Merlin shifted and made a pained noise. He held his injured arm close to his chest and blinked sleepily, uncertainly. His eyes set on Arthur, and Merlin froze.

They stared at each other for a long time.

Merlin glanced down and away, moving slightly, propping himself up on an elbow, trying to skirt away from Arthur. Merlin's lips twitched around words he didn't say, and he lowered his eyes and swallowed hard.

"You gonna arrest me?"

Arthur barely registered the words. He was too full of relief that Merlin was awake and that he was alive to put everything together, because he nearly asked why he'd arrest Merlin at all before everything came flooding back. Merlin was the masked man. Merlin had killed Kanen and other bandits. Merlin had tracked down and found the men who had been plaguing Albion, capturing them and leaving them for Arthur and the deputies to arrest and lock up. Merlin --

Merlin was a damn fool who had nearly _died_.

Arthur wanted to shake him. Arthur wanted to hold him.

 _I'm sorry I shot you_ came out as a curt "I haven't decided yet."

"Arthur --"

Arthur stood up abruptly and shoved a water canteen at Merlin. "Get some rest."

He left the barn, slamming the door behind him. He gasped for air, his chest hurting as sure as if a damn horse was standing on it. His eyes stung, but that was the cold wind and the too-bright stars and the phosphorus flash of the full moon.

Merlin --

Merlin was _alive_.

Arthur had never been so thankful his entire life. Never felt so much regret. He hated himself. He was angry with Merlin.

So, _so_ angry.

It was a long time before the night chill crept in, sinking to his bones.

The winter was coming. It wouldn't be long before the snow started to fall. There wouldn't be much of it, not in these parts, but there'd be enough of it that after the sun came out on a clear day, it would melt, only to freeze again at night, when every footfall would make the ground crackle and snap like glass. It was shaping out to be a long, hard winter, what with so many farms having been hit and hit hard by the bandits. The Wilsons had lost weeks of harvest time after the raid and were struggling hard to finish before the frost. The Hendersons' land flooded during the last rains and half their crops were rotting in the field. The Bridges' cattle had been culled when they were found sickly after a poisoning by a bushweed that had spread through their property like wildfire.

The town would survive. It would be a lean winter, and for some people, it would be leaner still for those who didn't even have a roof over their heads.

Arthur stared long and hard at the skeleton that stood where the Emerson's home had been.

He didn't know what to do.

Not with Merlin. Not with himself. Not with anything.

The big grey horse was watching him over the fence, his head turned to the side, his ears perked up and pointing forward. He nickered and tossed his head.

"This is all your fault," Arthur said, because he needed someone, some _thing_ to blame, even though he couldn't point fingers at anyone other than himself. He hadn't managed to stop Kanen and his band. If he had -- if he had, then none of this would have happened. Merlin would still have his mother. The Wilsons would still have their land. The town would be in better shape than it was. Merlin wouldn't have felt the need to take the law into his own hands.

He wouldn't have shot Merlin. 

The big grey horse snorted and pawed at the ground once, twice, three times. It was the same _don't make me come over there_ gesture Hank made when Arthur didn't give him his oats quick enough.

Arthur ran his hands through his hair. Rubbed his palms on his beard. He walked to the corral and folded his arms over the top railing, resting his chin on his forearms.

"I don't know what to do," he said out loud, and that made it more real, somehow, leaving him lost and unsettled like he'd never been before, not even when he turned his back on his family and joined the other side of the war.

The big grey horse walked over, his hooves clomping lightly in the dirt. He stuck his head over the railing, curling his neck over Arthur's back in some sort of strange comfort. As if that wasn't odd enough, the horse snorted, knocked his skull against Arthur's, and trotted off.

It was a good long while of staring out into the distance, too keenly aware of Merlin lying injured in the barn before Arthur decided what that meant.

If that wasn't a _don't be an idiot_ gesture, Arthur didn't know what it was. Everything he'd ever been looking for since he'd come out West had been right in front of him the whole time. Someone to fill his empty heart. A place that he could truly, _truly_ call home.

And he was damned if he was going to lose it.

 

****

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/jSuW92z)

 

The sun was rising in a crest of angelic blue and pink, soft hues of orange and yellow casting the light into a crown. It was a new day, fresh and crisp, and nothing had gone wrong.

Yet.

Arthur hammered a board in place. He took a step back to survey his handiwork -- he was nearly finished with the third wall of the house, and he was going to need to enlist some help from town if the roof was meant to be completed before the first real frost covered the ground. The inside would be sparse, but as long as there was a house, they would -- Arthur was getting ahead of himself -- _Merlin_ would be fine.

The horses were trotting around the pasture, waking up with the dawn. The grey horse -- whom Arthur had decided had a horrendous personality -- approached the fence and leaned against it with what appeared to be every intention of breaking it down.

"Don't, Kil," Merlin said, and the grey horse snorted, tossed his head, and took a step back. The sidelong look he gave Merlin spoke volumes, and Arthur wished he knew more horsetalk than he did, because he wasn't sure if the grey horse -- Kil -- was being reproachful or just plain ornery.

He was betting on ornery.

Arthur glanced at Merlin and picked up another board. He was shirtless, and in the morning chill, gooseflesh pebbled up his arms. The tell-tale tremble of Merlin's jaw hinted at chattering teeth that he couldn't hear over the hoofbeats from the corral, though the horses were settling down now that Merlin was up and about.

Arthur wordlessly pointed to the sawhorse where he'd left his coat and raised both eyebrows meaningfully. Merlin hesitated before inching closer, like a mouse reaching for a treat but afraid of the trap snapping shut. He picked up the coat and held it to his chest awkwardly; Arthur ignored him in favour of putting up the next board. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin drape it over his shoulders carefully, sliding his good arm through the sleeve, keeping his other curled against his chest and holding the edges closed for warmth.

He missed the nail and hit his thumb because he was too distracted to concentrate. A shirtless Merlin, even an _injured_ shirtless Merlin, was just plain gorgeous, and as much as Arthur tried not to stare, Merlin's long lean lines and subtly defined muscles were seared into his mind. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing him like that, half-naked, hair tousled, an uncertain weight on his shoulders.

It was Merlin that broke the silence first, his voice almost too soft to hear. "Arthur, what are you --"

He might have asked _what are you doing_ or _what are you going to do_ , and one was easier to answer than the other.

"What's it look like, _Mer_ lin?" Arthur drove a nail through a board with a single strike, thankful that that one hadn't landed on his fingers.

"But why are you --"

"You don't get to ask questions. That's not how it works. I'm the one asking questions here. You're going to start by telling me the whole story, starting with where you found _that_ monster --" Arthur swung the hammer in Kil's direction; the horse made a low, groaning sound, almost as if he'd understood, which was unnerving. "And where you got those guns, because those aren't ordinary guns, a man could pay a fortune for a set like those. You're going to talk until I finish this wall and that one, and _then_ , I'll tell you what I'm going to do."

"Arthur --"

"Start. Talking," Arthur said, gritting his teeth. He didn't look at Merlin. He couldn't. He picked up another board and grabbed a handful of nails.

He was three boards in before Merlin spoke, his voice low and subdued; Arthur had to time his strikes or he wouldn't hear what Merlin had to say.

"You know what happened to… to Mum. I was… I was…" Merlin slumped, his body caving in on itself, looking small under Arthur's coat.

"She was the only thing I had left," Merlin said. "I don't… I don't have anyone else. My dad _died_ , Arthur. I saw him die. I couldn't lose Mum, and they… they killed her."

Arthur stared at the nail in front of him. He couldn't know how he would feel if he had lost his father when he was young, but he'd grown up with the constant reminder that it had been his fault his mother had died in childbirth. The guilt had gnawed at him as long as he'd allowed it, until he finally told his father that he hadn't done it on _purpose_. He'd been a _baby_. If nothing else, Arthur could understand how Merlin might not have wanted to lose his mother, too. He pounded the nail in, all in one blow, and picked up another board.

"I don't blame you, if that's what you're wonderin'. Gwaine thought that… that maybe you did, that it was why you stayed away for so long, why you didn't come visitin' so much…" Arthur shot a warning glance at Merlin, because he didn't want to hear about Gwaine, he didn't want to hear about himself -- this was about Merlin and why he'd done what he had done -- but Merlin didn't see it. His head was hanging down. "I was just so mad. Kanen and his men, they'd been gettin' away with it as long as I can remember. Didn't matter what anyone ever did. The Marshals came, too, years back, but they took one look at Albion and said good riddance, because why should they care about some no-name town without a railroad, anyway?

"And the old Sheriff, he _tried_ , he really did, but he could only do so much. He was only ever half-decent with a gun, lucky if he could stay on a horse without getting' bucked off. Kept the town safe, made sure no one _died_ , but I guess -- oh, Hell, I don't know, maybe Kanen got _bored_ or somethin', because he started killin', and --"

Merlin took a deep, shuddering breath. Arthur grabbed another board and climbed the ladder.

"They were my Pa's. The guns. Kil -- Kilgarrah. My Pa, he was a trick rider, a crack shot, a fast draw." Merlin hesitated. "Wasn't always honest, neither, but he turned around, and he did it for Mum. Came out here back when Albion was barely a General Store and a Barber's. Bought all the land he could, got himself some horses. Cattle. A cow was just a block of walking shit to him, chawin' on grass, wastin' space. Mum knew all about cattle, though; most of our livin' comes from that. Pa didn't know what he was doin', but that was all right, Mum taught him, and they figured out the rest.

"Got a name for himself, breedin' and raisin' and trainin' the best horses he could, because that was the only thing he knew. Everyone wanted our horses. He could train a horse to do anythin'. Won a fair few bets that way, too.

"Taught me everythin' he knew." Merlin's chin was raised, his good shoulder leaning against the doorframe, and he watched the horses in the corral. "Everthin'. How to listen to the horses, how to talk to them, how to teach them. How to ride, how to shoot, how to throw the rope until I swung myself a butterfly or somethin' dumb like that. Mum didn't like it, made me promise I'd never --"

His voice cracked. He stopped talking.

Arthur devoutly resisted looking at Merlin, to cave in to the urge to go over and comfort him, and climbed down the ladder, picked up a few boards to lean against the wall, shoved a handful of nails in a pocket, before heading up again. He balanced a board and beat it in, and if he used more force than necessary, well, Merlin didn't seem to notice.

"I was eleven. Maybe twelve. That's when Pa's past caught up with him. They'd just taken most of our stock, would've taken more if we hadn't gotten word from the Gorlois -- them, they got cleaned out, packed up and moved away, couldn't afford to start all over again, I suppose -- when the Colonel or the Captain or the Lieutenant or whatever he was, he looked at Pa and said, 'I reckon I know you from somewheres'. And Pa said, 'Too bad I can't say the same'." Merlin shuffled his foot on the floor, adding to the scuff of fire-scorched boards.

"Mum was up in arms about it. Told Pa to take Kil and run. Pa told her he wasn't runnin', he'd made amends, he'd -- he wasn't goin' to leave us behind, and damn it to Hell, he wasn't goin' to lose everythin'."

Arthur heard the vehemence in Merlin's voice, and could only guess at how much like his father Merlin was. He was easy-going and down-to-earth and absurdly sweet and appealingly shy, and that was a lot like Mrs. Emerson had been. This temper, this determination and the recklessness that Arthur had seen and heard about, that had to have come from Merlin's father.

"The Lieutenant, the Colonel, whatever, he came back, dangled irons from his finger, said, 'You got two choices -- Jail, where you're gonna rot for the rest of your sorry life plus a hundred years more, dependin' on how generous the Judge's bein' that day, or we vouch for you and you run scout for us --" Merlin sighed, his shoulders slumping, and he winced. "They kept comin' for Pa. Takin' him away. The ranch was sufferin', Mum and I, we did what we could, but I --

"I thought it wasn't fair. Had to stay at home and run chores every day. Couldn't go to school with Will, couldn't learn my letters proper. Mum tried to teach me at night, but I were too tired and too damn mad. So the next time Pa went with them, I went, too, shirked my chores, took Hank -- shouldn't have, he wasn't half-broke yet, too young to take my weight and I followed them real quiet like. Must've been ridin' a day and a night, maybe more, I don't remember anymore. Mum was right mad I was gone so long on my own, but forgot to smack me 'cause I was bawlin' my damn eyes out."

Merlin fell quiet. Arthur's shoulders ached; he lowered his arms, hooking the hammer on the topmost board and reached down for the next. He didn't hurry, but he didn't look over his shoulder, either. He used every blow of the hammer to keep his heart from breaking for Merlin as he listened, but his heart just kept right on breaking when Merlin picked up his story again.

"They came back, the soldiers, I mean. Told Mum that Pa had met a whore two towns over and run off with her, told everyone else that he got shot by the natives to _'spare Missus Emerson the humiliation'_ but Mum already knew the truth. Damn near took a rifle to her shoulder to shoot them in the ass. Went one town over to the Judge there -- she knew him and all -- but was told it was my word 'gainst theirs, that no one would believe me that they'd killed Pa because the Captain wanted Kil for himself. I was just a kid."

Merlin sniffled. 

"Everythin' we had of him, Mum hid it away. The six-shooters from when he was wild and reckless. Scraps of paper, wanted posters Pa was dumb enough to keep as souvenirs. When Kil came back on his own, we hid him, too. Was just easier, I guess. Hurt too much to have the guns and the horse around where we could see. We'd just start missin' him all over again, hurtful reminders that someone took him away from us for no damn good reason."

Merlin stopped talking. Arthur finished the wall and started working on the last one. The sun was getting high, but the wind was cold, so he kept his shirt on and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

He saw a flash of white sneaking its way out of the barn, the yearling pausing in the doorway, his head up, ears rotating, trying to decide if it was safe to be in the open before he trotted in careful, measured steps toward the corral, nickering softly.

"Everybody's always been takin' things," Merlin said, his voice so soft that Arthur stopped in mid-swing, wanting to hear what Merlin had to say. "Our horses. My Pa. My Mum. Couldn't stand it no more. Didn't want no one else goin' through what I did. 

"Kil came when I whistled. He remembered. He --" Merlin's voice grew thick. "He knew all my Pa's old tricks. He wouldn't let me down. I knew it. And the guns -- Mum always said look, don't touch, but Mum ain't here no more. I know these lands better than those dumb robbers. Know every hole in the ground. And Pa… he was a real good tracker, ages ago, before he went bad.

"Taught me how to track, too." 

In the silence that followed, Arthur glanced at Merlin. Merlin had turned around and was facing out of the house, staring outside. 

"Could've tracked them, I suppose. Wasn't gettin' me anywheres, though. Then I go to town for some grain and some more wood and some more nails, when I hear Kanen's over at the Saloon, best not to go there, and --" Merlin's head hung so low, his chin nearly touched his chest, and his voice was rough when he went on. "That were the first time. The first time _ever_. Never killed a man before. Saw plenty of dead men. Never bothered me, but shootin' a man? I…"

Merlin swallowed thickly. "It was like you said. I almost couldn't do it. But then it would've been them or me."

Arthur muttered under his breath, hating that he'd been right. He'd never wanted Merlin to know that feeling of taking someone's life, of being haunted by it for the rest of his life.

"Left the rest for you and the deputies, figured that was best all 'round. I never cared about the rewards. Just wanted them to stop hurting people." There was a hitch in Merlin's voice, something that told Arthur that this was as much as he wanted to say, as much as there was to say, and there was more that he needed to say but didn't.

Arthur hammered three more boards into the wall and took a step back, wiping his brow with his sleeve. The house was starting to look like a house again. Merlin had built it to the same dimensions, but Arthur could already see that there would be a need to expand. He put all thoughts of expansion out of his mind -- it wasn't the time or the place -- and put down his hammer, reaching for the canteen. He slaked his thirst and shoved it into Merlin's hands, gesturing for him to take a drink, too.

Arthur waited until Merlin re-capped the canteen before asking, "Is that it?"

"What more is there?" Merlin asked, shrugging a shoulder, wincing a little. He shook his head and made a small, rueful laugh. "You want me to say I'm sorry I'd gone and done it? 'Cause I'm not. Not the least bit sorry. They needed stoppin' and you couldn't do what needed to be done, so just as well it fell to me."

"Except it didn't fall to you, Merlin," Arthur snapped. He ran his hand through his sweat-damp hair and shook his head. He turned away, snatching the hammer and a fresh board. "It didn't, all right? It was none of your affairs. It was mine, and I was dealing with it. Maybe not as quick as you'd have liked, but I was doing it the _lawful_ way. You shouldn't -- you should've left it to me."

Merlin's eyes were downcast, red-rimmed and raw, his face pale with pain, but there was an edge of deep-down hurt that went well past a bullet wound that had gone through-and-through. "You hate me."

Arthur's hand tightened around the hammer. He pounded two nails in -- enough to keep the board up -- before tossing the hammer onto the makeshift sawhorse table, where it bounced and made half the nails spill to the floor. "God _damn_ it, Merlin. I'm trying to understand. What in the Hell were you thinking? That you'd stop them, that you'd get rid of them all? And then what? What would you have done after? Because behind every gang, there's another one waiting to take over, and another, and another. Were you just going to keep pulling this masked man business forever? Because they're going to keep on coming, and the first thing they're going to do is come after you. After _you_ , Merlin."

Arthur didn't realize he'd crossed the space between them until he had his own jacket in his hands, grabbing fistfuls of the lapels, hauling Merlin close.

"You think I wanted to shoot you? How do you think I felt when I turned over your body and saw that it was you? Now think a bit more, Merlin -- how do you think I'm going to feel when I'm told I need to put up Wanted posters for you? When Albion gets flooded with bounty hunters and unsavoury types who want to make themselves some quick coin? How do you think I'm going to feel when they bring you in however they can, and there's only two ways, and that's alive or dead? You think I want to see that?"

Merlin's brows pinched; his mouth opened and closed, making wordless sounds. His eyes were filled with indignation, confusion, and, finally, resignation. "Just arrest me, then. Get it done and over with. I've lost everythin' that matters already -- my Pa, my Mum, even --"

"Even what?"

Merlin's eyes watered, and he looked away. 

Arthur shook him. "Even what?"

Merlin's mouth moved; there were words this time, but no voice behind them.

"Say it, Merlin," Arthur pleaded, because he needed to hear everything. He couldn't take any more secrets. Not now.

Merlin turned his head but didn't meet Arthur's eyes. His voice was a broken whisper. "Even you."

Arthur's grasp slackened, only to tighten again, turning from surprise to resolution. He walked Merlin two steps into the brand new wall he'd just built. Merlin didn't fight him, but his footing stumbled and he fell, wincing in pain when his shoulder struck the hard surface. "Arthur --"

Arthur shut him up with a kiss. It wasn't a good kiss by any means. A smash of lips, a crash of teeth, noses bent out of place. And the worst -- the worst of it was feeling Merlin freeze under him. Arthur cursed himself, for wanting, for hoping, for wishing, for all the misinterpreting and believing all of Gwaine's teasing. Those shy looks he'd gotten from Merlin, the sidelong glances, the over-the shoulders. The furtive quirk of his lips in a smile that he never gave anyone else but Arthur.

He'd been wrong, wrong, _wrong_ , and all the things that he'd figured out during the night, all the things that he was going to do, that had hinged on fragile dreams he would never be lucky enough to have -- they broke and shattered and left him with a bleeding gut besides.

Arthur pulled away, letting Merlin go, turning around to look for his gloves, his hat. He didn't see them, he didn't look, because just as quickly he stepped toward the door. He was a damn fool for thinking he could have this, that he could do what he wanted instead of what other people wanted him to do, and now he was going to be turned into a laughingstock --

Merlin moved, blocking the door. Arthur glanced up, startled, and had just enough time to see something familiar, something that he felt, too, flicker in Merlin's eyes before Merlin shut up Arthur's snarled "Get out of my way" with a kiss of his own.

Merlin's kiss was much better.

Not gentler. Not kinder. But just as sure as Arthur's had been, just as wanting, just as needing. This time, it was Arthur who froze, but only to gasp in surprise and shudder when Merlin chased after what he wanted, licking into his mouth before pulling back to press his lips in another kiss. Arthur's hands snaked around Merlin's slim waist, and _God_ , to touch that flesh, finally, to feel Merlin against him like this -- that was Heaven and Hell combined, making him crave like he'd never wanted anything before.

He wrestled Merlin into the house, wedging him in the corner, the tarp overhead slapping and hooting from a sudden rush of wind. They kissed, they touched, they kissed more, they broke apart, foreheads touching, the both of them panting for air.

"You don't know," Arthur whispered, closing his eyes. "You don't know what you do to me. What it felt like when I saw you in the barn, when I realized I _damn near killed you_."

It didn't matter that Arthur had never had any intention of killing the vigilante -- Merlin -- in the first place. He'd wanted to disable him long enough to be caught and brought to justice. A leg shot would have missed if Merlin had moved. A shoulder shot could have, too, but it could equally have gone wrong, the bullet going the wrong way and going through the heart.

"If I'd known you were such a good shot --"

"Be damn glad I am," Arthur said, pulling back to see Merlin, to take in the befuddled _why did we stop kissing_ in his eyes, the rough red of lips that had haunted Arthur's dreams on too many nights and was suddenly very real. He leaned in for another kiss, more careful this time, soft and gentle, before pushing in and asking for more, driven on by Merlin's wanton moan.

Merlin's good arm wound around Arthur's neck, fingers tangling in his hair. Arthur mouthed along Merlin's jaw before nipping his way along the curve of Merlin's ears. "Should arrest you," he growled. "Keep you from being a goddamn fool."

Merlin's body tensed, and Arthur pulled away to look at him, distracted by the blush on his cheeks where Arthur's beard had scratched his skin.

"I'm not," Arthur said. Merlin blinked at him, his brows pinching faintly. "Going to arrest you, that is. But I have conditions."

"All right," Merlin said, leaning in for another kiss. "I agree. Yes to all of them."

Arthur shoved Merlin against the wall, holding him there, careful of Merlin's shoulder. "You don't even know what they are."

"Just tell me that it involves more of this," Merlin said, and it drove Arthur insane, the way Merlin could sound so shy when he looked like _this_ , his hair ruffled, his expression intent, his tongue darting over his lips to wet them. "And I won't care about anythin' else. I won't. You think I don't know how you feel about me -- well, _you_ don't know how I feel about you. I was _terrified_ every time I went to town and heard you were out there, huntin' Kanen and his gang. Kept thinkin' that the last time would be the _last_ time I ever saw you again. I couldn't bear it."

There was a whimper in Merlin's tone, a sharp keen of fear that he felt even now, and it nearly broke Arthur's resolve. Merlin took the advantage, kissing Arthur until he forgot what he'd been about to say, pushing and pushing until it was Arthur against the wall.

"You'll be seeing so much of me it won't be long before you're sick of me," Arthur managed to say in between kisses, distracted by the way Merlin pulled at his belt, struggling to do it one-handed while still keeping Arthur in place.

"What?"

His belt clanked on the ground and Merlin rubbed his hand through Arthur's trousers. Arthur hissed, his knees threatening to give out from the combined sensation of rough trousers and gentle stroke. He grabbed Merlin's wrist and turned them both around. Merlin winced when his injured shoulder struck the wall, and Arthur kissed him until the pain went away.

"I told you I had conditions," Arthur said, pulling at Merlin's breeches. "Starting with never doing this again. You're putting those guns away for good. That damn horse's going back to pasture until everyone forgets what it looked like. And you didn't get shot --"

He mouthed at Merlin's jaw, trailing down Merlin's throat, pushing the coat away from Merlin's shoulder to kiss apologetically at the outside of the bandaged wound.

"-- you fell off the ladder or some fool thing, dislocated your shoulder. When I go to town tomorrow, I'm telling them all that the vigilante got away, and I'm coming back with enough men to get the roof up on this house, because I'm damned to Hell if I'm going to move in before then."

Arthur worked his way down, licking and biting at the smooth expanse of flesh that he had every intention of becoming familiar with in every way possible, tugging down Merlin's trousers.

"… wait. Wha -- ahh," Merlin mumbled, coming out of his daze long enough to realize what Arthur had said, only to get sidetracked when Arthur licked Merlin's cock for the taste that he'd wanted for a long time now.

"I'm moving in," Arthur said, pausing to savour the salty taste of pre-cum, of _Merlin_ , on his lips. "Someone's got to keep an eye on you. Keep you out of trouble --"

"Arthur --" 

Whatever Merlin had been about to say died on his lips when Arthur took him in his mouth, sucking shallowly and trying not to reel back from the heady sensation of _finally_. Merlin's hand fell to his head, fingers entangling with his hair, the touch light and careful, afraid to do any more. And Arthur -- it had been too damn long since he'd been with a man, and the behind-the-barn fumbling with a stablehand or in the trenches with another, faceless soldier were vague, distant memories that didn't count, not now, not when he had _Merlin_. He shoved his hands down his trousers, pulling out his cock, stroking it hard and fast because he wasn't going to last --

And neither did Merlin, whose hips stuttered in an attempt to keep from fucking into Arthur's mouth, who managed a gasping warning that Arthur ignored because a mere _taste_ wasn't enough, and when Merlin came, Arthur swallowed it all.

Merlin slumped on the ground in front of Arthur, his expression halfway between completely stupefied and ridiculously happy but that was wholly satisfied. Arthur took in the sight of him, all red-bruised lips and bites where Arthur had nipped too hard, relaxed limbs and bright blue eyes half-hooded with mischief and promise, memorizing this even if he planned on seeing it as often as possible, because this was a picture that no one else would ever see but him.

Still, Arthur couldn't help it. He searched for signs of regret, hints that Merlin would pull away, that this was a one-off to satisfy a craving, a curiosity -- or, worse, to keep Arthur from tying him up, throwing him over the back of his horse, and dragging him to Jail.

There was none of that. No withdrawing, no confusion, no disgust, only a small smile that Arthur knew he would remember to the end of his days, a smile that was only for him.

It made his heart catch and swell at the same time, hurting in a way it had never hurt before, but in a good way, a way he'd gladly suffer through just to see that smile again.

"I got conditions too," Merlin said, his voice soft, his fingers twitching on his bare knee. His trousers were around his ankles and he hadn't bothered to pull them up again, not seeming to care. He held his breath, hesitating, almost afraid to say the words.

"Soon as I get the boys settled, soon as Leon's got his head wrapped around it," Arthur said, speaking slowly because he hadn't decided this part until he'd heard Merlin's story, until he understood just how much Merlin had fretted over him all this time. "Soon as. I'm turning in my badge."

And that was the right thing to say, what Merlin _wanted_. His eyes watered and his mouth dropped open in a soundless gasp. When Merlin lunged at Arthur and wrapped his arms around him, Arthur was ready for him. 

 

****

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/jSuW92z)

 

It was the crack of dawn, if the damn rooster's crowing was anything to go by, but Arthur was already awake. He'd been awake for a while.

Merlin was sprawled half on top of him, his arm across Arthur's chest, his hand tucked under Arthur's hip. His head was in the crook of Arthur's shoulder, his leg was hooked between Arthur's. It didn't matter whether he was awake or asleep -- Merlin held on like he never intended to let go.

Arthur didn't mind. Merlin was a welcome weight, a welcome warmth. Arthur hadn't been able to sleep much over the three weeks it had taken to get the new heads of cattle and to return home. Three weeks and not much by way of company except for the cow dogs that Arthur was breeding and training to become the best in the state. Percival didn't count as company, either, not on this trip; but Arthur appreciated his help all the same. A hundred head of cattle was a lot to handle on his own in the dead of winter, even with the dogs.

Quitting his job had changed things for the better, at least for Arthur. He'd stayed on long enough to help Leon get settled and to track down the last of the bandits, and the winter was going to be blissfully quiet as a result. Albion was going to be in a good position when the spring came despite the rumours that another gang was talking big about taking over where Kanen had left off. Lance had moved up to take over Leon's job as the second, and two more of Arthur's old acquaintances had turned up after all and were deputized. 

Sheriff Leon Miller had lost one deputy, though. Percival couldn't rationalize all the socializing he did with a con man like Gwaine with his job of upholding the law, and Arthur had been quick to snap him up as a permanent ranch hand. He'd bought more land and in the next few years, the Emerson-Pendragon ranch was going to be the biggest in the whole state. They were going to build another stable for all of Merlin's horses, a bunkhouse for the temporary hires during the year, and, eventually, a bigger house, because Arthur missed having a library, and he meant to help Merlin learn his letters -- when they weren't busy with other things.

At least, that was the plan. His plan. Merlin's plan. _Their_ plans, and if that didn't sound right to Arthur, then nothing else ever would.

"You're thinkin' too loud," Merlin mumbled, his voice heavy with the rough of sleep and half-muffled by a yawn.

"I'm thinking about breakfast," Arthur said, glancing down fondly before ruffling Merlin's hair. "Plus the cock's crowed, you're normally up before it is."

"The cock can crow all it wants, I ain't done with this one," Merlin said, reaching down to sleepily rub Arthur to half-hardness through the blankets. "Been three weeks, Arthur -- missed you too much."

Arthur bit back a groan and let his head fall back onto the pillows. "I could be persuaded to stay in a while longer --"

One of the dogs barked. Then another. All the rest of them followed suit a moment later, first in excitement, then with a pitch that Arthur had come to recognize as an alert for someone coming. Arthur cursed, Merlin rolled off, and they both got dressed -- Arthur with an ex-soldier's quickness, Merlin with a half-awake hop to get into his trousers.

Arthur went to the front rooms to take a quick look out the window to decide if he should get his gun. "It's Leon."

"What in the goddamn Hell is he doin', comin' in this early?" Merlin threw another log into the fire, stoking it until he was sure it would catch flame, and moved to the kitchen to make the coffee. 

"I don't know, I'm not a mind reader, am I?" Arthur pulled on his coat but didn't bother with his hat. The wind wasn't blowing, and even this early in the morning, around these parts, he didn't find that it ever got that cold. He went out, rifle in hand just in case, and was greeted by Cafall, her tongue lolling and her eyes bright, because she was the one who'd raised the alert. He scratched behind her ears and waited for Leon to ride in.

"Mornin', Arthur," Leon said, tipping his hat before dismounting.

"Morning, Leon. What brings you by this side of sunrise?"

"Sleepless nights," Leon said, spreading his hand in apology. Arthur knew from the look in his eyes and the grimace in his tone that something was coming their way. Merlin wasn't going to like it.

"Come on inside, get warmed up. Merlin's sure to have the coffee boiling, if he hasn't started breakfast too," Arthur said. Leon brightened up at the prospect and hitched his horse to the pole in front of the house.

Merlin raised a brow at Leon but didn't say much other than to place mugs of coffee and bowls of hot porridge all around. Leon didn't keep them waiting long, taking a large gulp of too-hot brew before he got to the point.

"Stagecoach brought the news yesterday. It's all over town by now. Thought I'd bring the news in myself, so that --"

"Oh," Merlin said, shaking his head, already coming to conclusions. Arthur tried to catch Merlin's eye, but Merlin ducked his head down with a sigh.

"-- you got the news clear, without all the gossipin' that's goin' around," Leon said. "The railroad's plannin' to expand, wants to set a station here, and you know what that sort of thing is goin' to bring."

Arthur ran a hand over his face, scratching his fingers over his chin, smoothing down his beard with a sigh. He could already think of all the trouble coming their way, from rich magnates buying up all the land to their men making damn sure that the land could be brought up cheap. With the railroad came more people wanting to settle down, but also a whole swath more of them wanting to make a bit of money quick, even if it came with a bit of gunslinger persuasion. "Is it official?"

Arthur had seen the maps. Their lands weren't anywhere near a railroad route, and he couldn't see anyone building the tracks over their property without spending more money than they had and going out of their way. Just to make sure, though, he'd check their accounts to see how much more land they could buy.

"As official as it gets, straight out of a man who let it slip he was here in town to scout, see what land they could buy up. Gwaine got him good and drunk before swindlin' him dry as a bone; if he were plannin' on startin' a land claim now, he's plumb out of coin and credit to do it with," Leon said, smirking. Merlin chortled, nearly coughing on his porridge, and Arthur shook his head, because he always knew that Gwaine's sense of righteousness was twisted, but in the end he'd always do what was right by the town. "I'm bettin' Valiant -- that's the man's name -- he ain't goin' to be happy when he wakes up, and he strikes me as the sort who'll come back with a posse. I were wonderin'…"

Arthur exchanged a glance with Merlin, who rolled his eyes. 

"If it comes to that, can I count on your gun?"

Arthur watched as Merlin's shoulders slumped, as he shook his head with an _I knew this would happen_ and an _I know you, Arthur, you're not goin' to let him down_. Arthur could see Merlin's mind working, as he worked through the promise that he'd made and found a loophole in their agreement. Merlin pointed his spoon at Arthur and said, "I know what you're goin' to say, Arthur. And you know I got conditions."

"Oh, you have conditions, do you?"

"You know I do," Merlin said, ducking his head. He glanced out the side window, and Arthur followed his gaze. Sure enough, that god _damn_ ornery horse, that Kilgarrah, was right there when he should be hiding several pastures over, where Merlin had stuck him. The grey horse bobbed his head up and down.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help it. He broke into a grin. The grin became a loud chuckle when he saw Leon's confusion. Leon looked over his shoulder, saw the horse, and gave Arthur a startled look before turning to Merlin with wide, round eyes.

"Leon," Arthur said, watching as Merlin's chin ducked down shyly, his ears pinking up, "I think you can count on both of our guns."

**Author's Note:**

> * * *
> 
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